by Tamara Leigh
Hysterics, Griffin had named her foolishness, but now having met her, she whose breath had stopped so that anger might once more fill the space between them, he thought it more likely she had sought to aid her brother. Still foolish, but intriguingly so.
“You are satisfied?” Though it was the same he asked of each room she entered, this time he did so without teasing.
She turned and moved to the next door.
Rhys shrugged and lifted his palms.
The lad could not be faulted, for though Griffin knew Serle was more to blame for that day—for abandoning reason alongside faith—his brother had lost all to Bayard Boursier’s sword. Thus, the ill will Griffin revealed in the presence of his impressionable young son, and that he did not better rein in his men who had also suffered at the hands of the Boursiers and Verduns, was responsible for words that should not have been spoken.
Determining he and his son would discuss it later, he jutted his chin at the wax tablet at the foot of the bed. “You are not to leave your chamber until your sums are completed.”
Rhys grimaced. “Aye, Father.”
Griffin closed the door. Though he had not expected he would ever apologize to a Boursier for anything, an apology was on his tongue as he drew alongside Lady Quintin.
But then she flicked her gold-ringed brown eyes at him and said, “Mayhap the De Arells are a lost cause after all. Poor King Edward. Such hopes he had for you.” She sighed. “Me? Though I have not much expectation for any of these marriages, methinks it best I put all my hope in Magnus Verdun.”
Whom she was to wed within months of her brother wedding Thomasin, leaving Griffin to complete the circle by wedding Elianor of Emberly.
Telling himself this was Lady Quintin’s due, and there was no gain in responding in kind, Griffin knocked on the door. “My daughter’s chamber. She was unwell this morn, so she may yet be abed.”
When Thomasin did not call him inside, he opened the door. Her unmade bed was empty, as was the rest of her chamber.
Ulric, he thought. She has gone abovestairs to visit him. Which Griffin had refused to allow when, having learned of his daughter’s existence three years past, he had brought her to live at Castle Mathe. But she did as she pleased, and he had accepted her visits to her grandfather once he determined the old man would do her no harm. Not that she knew Griffin was aware of her defiance.
He motioned Lady Quintin in ahead of him, but she said, “I am satisfied,” and moved to the next chamber, which his senior household knight occupied when there were no guests of rank to accommodate. Neither did she enter that room, upon its threshold once more stating she was satisfied.
“You would also confirm your brother is not in the chapel?” Griffin jutted his chin at where it lay near the corridor’s end.
“Of course.” She crossed to it, opened the door, and peered into the dim. “Why are there no candles lit?”
He met her gaze across her shoulder. “As you know, the bishop of our diocese passed away a fortnight past. As you obviously do not know, Castle Mathe’s priest succeeded him. Thus, we await his replacement.” He removed the torch from the sconce alongside the door, and when she stepped aside, thrust it into the chapel to prove she would not find her brother there.
She swept her gaze around the confines, turned, and advanced on the narrow stairway that accessed the third floor.
Griffin caught her arm as she set foot on it. “You have seen all there is to see, Lady Quintin.”
She pulled free. “I have not seen what is up there.”
“Nor will you. The entire floor is my father’s apartment, and he suffers no visitors.” And in this moment, Ulric was surely aware of the potential for them. His little dog, efficient at alerting him to the approach of those who ventured abovestairs, was likely growling low as he did when his ears pricked at the sound of Griffin’s voice. Once he sensed Lady Quintin’s presence, that growl would become a fierce bark, alerting its master to the presence of a stranger.
“So these are the rules you spoke of,” the lady said. “I may search out my brother only where you say I may.” She started past him. “As I did not agree to such, I will see for myself—”
Once more he grasped her arm. And this time, Godsmere’s men stirred in anticipation of the need to defend their lady. “As my father is not well, I will not have him disturbed. Thus, your search ends here.”
She lowered her chin, stared at his hand on her, then raised her face. “It appears you have wasted my time and proved naught. My brother could as easily be at the top of these stairs as in any of the rooms you have allowed me to enter.”
He released her, and though he expected her to distance herself, she did not.
“He is not abovestairs, Lady Quintin. You will have to accept my word on that.”
Sir Victor strode forward. “My lady, we ought to depart.”
As she held her gaze to Griffin, he saw plotting in her eyes. But rather than another attempt at bending him to her will with flirtation, she said, “You are not very hospitable, Baron.”
As he was well aware. But of greater concern was how aware he was of her. And that could prove as dangerous to a warrior as leaving his helmet’s visor raised amidst a hail of arrows.
“I have been more than accommodating, my lady. Thus, as Sir Victor tells, it is time you return to Godsmere where ’tis possible you shall find your brother.”
“God willing I shall. But ere we part company, surely you can offer us food and drink to sustain us during our journey.”
She sought to prolong her stay, doubtless in hopes of stealing up the stairs.
“Do you forget,” she pressed, “you earlier invited me to your table.”
He had not forgotten. “As the days of winter are short, the longer you delay, the more likely you will ride by moonlight.”
She tilted her head. “Regardless, I am tired and hungry and would be grateful to sit awhile.”
Imagining her at his side for an hour or more, wishing he were not attracted to one who should not appeal in the absence of long tresses through which a man could run his hands, he knew he ought to refuse. But he said, “Then you and your men shall join us at meal.”
The turn of her lips seemed almost genuine. “You are all graciousness, Baron de Arell.”
He motioned her to precede him, and she stepped past and was intercepted by Sir Victor.
Griffin could only hear the urgency in the knight’s words, but he knew the man sought to convince her to depart immediately.
Surely wishing her response to be known to Griffin, she whispered loudly, “Aye, but the baron and I yet have games to play.”
CHAPTER THREE
What if ill befalls me whilst you are away, Daughter? What if I sicken and you are nowhere near to rouse me back to health?
Moving her gaze around the great hall in an attempt to put from mind the man seated beside her, Quintin winced over the memory of her mother’s pleading.
Lady Maeve, once strong of mind and will, had become less so since the passing of her husband years ago. Now she seemed more like the daughter than the mother, and attending to her demands, worries, and fears was wearying—and sometimes alarming—but Quintin loved her dearly.
Though aided by Lady Maeve’s long-time maid, she took upon herself much of the responsibility of ensuring her mother’s comfort and peace of mind. And struggled against becoming foul-tempered when Lady Maeve perceived her daughter cared too much for others.
Quintin’s brother was most often considered the interloper. Not that Lady Maeve disliked her stepson, whom she had raised from a boy, but she resented him for how much her daughter adored him.
You care more for your half-brother than you do for me, she had snapped when Quintin had taken to the saddle to go in search of him.
Quintin had assured her it was not so, but her mother had tearfully gripped her daughter’s skirt and begged her not to leave.
’Tis not safe for you at Castle Mathe, she had cried. And when Qui
ntin had gently loosened Lady Maeve’s hold, her mother had warned that the devil walked Castle Mathe’s corridors. Doubtless, she referred to the old baron who dwelled on the uppermost floor.
Quintin peered sidelong at Griffin de Arell. Over the past hour and a half, he had refused her attempts to draw him into further talk of Bayard’s whereabouts and immersed himself in conversation with an older knight on his left. But now, as if feeling her gaze, he said, “Pardon, Sir Mathieu,” and looked around.
She raised her goblet, put it to her lips, and sipped.
Motioning a servant to remove the remains of their meals, the baron angled his body toward her. “I am curious, my lady.”
“Are you?”
He lowered his gaze to the bodice of her gown, lingered, and continued to her waist. “’Tis a fine dagger, one surely not meant to be worn by a lady.”
“’Tis a—”
“Wulfrith dagger. I know of them, have seen them worn by men trained into knighthood at Wulfen Castle—as was your father, I understand.”
Feeling as if she dishonored Archard Boursier and his accomplishment, she inwardly squirmed. “It belonged to him.”
“He gave it to you?” It was said with disbelief, for such a treasure would be passed not to a daughter but a worthy son—in this instance, Bayard.
“That is not your concern, Baron de Arell.”
He narrowed his eyes, inclined his head. “The day darkens, my lady.”
She glanced at the windows. “I pray I will not have to further impose by requesting a night’s lodging.”
“Providing you depart within a half hour, you should make Castle Adderstone shortly after nightfall.”
As she feigned consideration, she caught the scent of a dog, evidence a wolfhound was near again. The odor was not overly offensive, the dogs appearing well cared for, but she was not accustomed to being in close quarters with animals while at meal. Her mother did not allow it.
She lowered her goblet. “The sooner you honor my request to see what lies at the top of your stairs, the sooner you will rid yourself of me.”
His mouth leaned into a smile that was becoming familiar—half hitched with humor at her expense. “My lady, do you not think that were your brother imprisoned in my father’s apartment, I would have had him moved whilst we filled our bellies, and thereby see you satisfied and sooner on your way?”
She had thought that and, hoping there were no hidden passageways within Castle Mathe as there were at Castle Adderstone, had kept watch on the stairs lest a thing of good size was smuggled off them. But not even Lady Thomasin had appeared there, she who was as absent from the hall as she had been from her chamber.
Quintin frowned. Was it possible the young lady, who was said to be improper, was Bayard’s jailer? Might that be the true cause of her absence?
Ignoring Griffin de Arell’s question, she said, “If your daughter is well enough to leave her bed, why does she not join us at meal?”
He leaned nearer, and she caught the scent of ale on his breath. “You would know better than I, my lady, for I would not presume to fathom the life-giving secrets of a woman’s body.”
He spoke of menses, she realized and wished away the color in her cheeks and ache in her heart which, had she not removed her mantle before seating herself beside the lord of Castle Mathe, would have tempted a fist to her belly.
“Forgive me, Lady Quintin, I could think of no more delicate way to assure you my daughter would present herself were she able to.”
Uncomfortable with how near he remained, wondering if others noticed, she swept her gaze around the hall. They were watched, not only by Sir Victor and the others of Godsmere seated at side tables, but openly by the handsome knight who had accompanied the Baron of Blackwood in escorting the Godsmere party around the castle. He offered a smile she did not return and set to whatever remained of his meal.
“I assure you,” Griffin de Arell continued, “Thomasin would be eager to meet the one who is to be her sister-in-law.”
“You speak as if my brother is not missing, that he will soon appear and fulfill the king’s decree.”
He drew back. “Since ill has not befallen him at my hands, there is little chance ill has befallen him at all.”
She gasped. “That is rather arrogant.”
“Nay, that is rather true.”
“Even do I not see my brother again,” she said between her teeth, “never will you convince me he abandoned his family to flee marriage.”
“I would also be hard convinced of that.”
Though his words seemed sincere, she pressed, “Where is he?” He knew. Had to. If he did not…
“My answer remains the same, my lady—I know not.”
Again, spoken with sincerity. But it did not soothe. Far better Bayard imprisoned by his enemy than no longer subject to foul play.
“Whatever has become of my brother, it violates the decree. And that the king will not tolerate,” she said, then blinked at the realization she had conceded Griffin de Arell might not be responsible for Bayard being stolen from his bed.
As if the baron also realized it, regret softened his expression. “Certes, Edward will not like that your brother has disappeared, but in the end he will have his alliances.”
As much as it pained her to voice her next question, she said, “Without my brother, how will our three houses be joined?”
Regret more deeply grooved his face, and before he spoke she knew what he would tell. “The answer is in the king’s decree. If your family is unable to meet the conditions, Godsmere shall be forfeited to the crown.”
“But this is not our doing. King Edward will see that—will make allowances.”
Dear Lord, she silently beseeched, if the king stays true to his word that no excuse will he accept, not only will Mother and I lose Bayard, but our home will be dragged out from under us.
“Of course…” Frowning, Griffin de Arell sat back.
“What?”
He moved his gaze over her. “’Tis possible the king could be convinced to amend the decree—for the sake of the Foucault name.”
Her grandfather’s name that was no more, the same as the barony of Kilbourne. Twenty-five years past, Baron Denis Foucault had united with his peers in protest against England’s misrule, only to betray the baronage by turning spy for the inept King Edward II. His vassals—the Boursiers, De Arells, and Verduns—had then betrayed him to his peers. Upon Foucault’s death in the ensuing confrontation, the empowered baronage had seen Kilbourne divided between the three vassals, and the embittered king had been forced to accept the barons of Godsmere, Emberly, and Blackwood. When Foucault’s son, Simon, was killed in France shortly thereafter, the name had found its end.
Still, that blood flowed through Simon’s sister, Lady Maeve, and half as strong through Quintin, whose sire had wed Denis Foucault’s daughter. Though some spitefully said Archard Boursier had done it as penance for his betrayal, he had loved his wife.
Feeling the coursing of her Boursier-Foucault blood, Quintin narrowed her eyes at De Arell. “Amend the decree for the sake of the Foucault name? What mean you?”
He clasped his hands before him. “You have heard that when my father met with your father and Magnus Verdun’s twenty-five years past to unite against Baron Foucault, they agreed that should they prevail and be granted the reward they sought, Castle Adderstone would be Ulric de Arell’s.”
Denis Foucault’s own residence and the greater of his three castles. “This I know, as I know the reason it was awarded to my father. He proved the worthiest of those who revealed my grandfather’s plotting.”
She expected him to gainsay her, but he said, “A great loss for my sire.”
“And for it, he loves to stoke the feud between our families.”
Griffin de Arell further surprised by nodding. “I am thinking that if Godsmere is forfeited to the crown, eliminating the need for alliances with the Boursiers, I could suggest to the king that I be awarded the barony t
hrough marriage to you, Lady Quintin—for the sake of the Foucault name.”
Her throat clamped so tight she did not know where she found breath to hiss, “For the sake of your coffers.”
He smiled crookedly. “That, too.”
This time she leaned near. “Had we not an audience, I would slap that limp smile from your face.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Limp? Never have I heard it described so, though it does seem you and my sire are like-minded.”
Not until she felt the jewels of crucifixion in her palm did she realize her hand was on the Wulfrith dagger. To be equated with Ulric de Arell—
“Neither does he like my smile. Though he thinks it arrogant, I think it amused.”
“Amused!” Her voice rose, and she sensed more attention upon the high table.
The Baron of Blackwood glanced around. “’Tis mostly how I feel when my mouth hitches thus. But do I take you to wife, you will grow accustomed to it, likely find it appealing—as do most ladies—and long for me to press it to your own smile.”
Quintin gaped. His father was right—arrogance was the better word for that smile. “You are a lout, a knave, an oaf, the lowliest of—”
He laughed. Loud.
“Lady Quintin!” Sir Victor called.
But she was on her feet. The Wulfrith dagger in her fist. The blade at the baron’s throat. His laughter quieted. And the din of the hall put to bed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Heart feeling as if the blood were being squeezed from it, Quintin held her gaze to the man whose head was back and eyes, like his mouth, no longer made sport of her. Indeed, the brilliant blue was barely visible, reduced to narrow bands encircling black pupils that put her in mind of what it must be like to stare down death.
Dear Lord, what have I done? And what am I to do now? she silently appealed, but if the Lord was speaking to her, His voice was too soft to be heard above the shocked and excited onlookers—and of more immediate threat, the growl of a wolfhound on the other side of the lord’s high seat.
