Marriage Deal With the Outlaw & the Warrior's Damsel in Distress & the Knight's Scarred Maiden : Harlequin Historical August 2017 (9781488021640)

by St. Harper George; Fuller, Meriel; Locke, Nicole

  ‘The perfect lady of the manor,’ Gilbert said, chewing thoughtfully. ‘What a shame I have to take her away from all this.’ Reaching for the earthenware jug of red wine, he poured himself another goblet. A bead of liquid spilled from the mouth of the jug as he set the heavy vessel back down clumsily; it landed on the pristine white tablecloth, spreading out in a crimson circle.

  ‘When are you going to tell her?’ Bruin speared a slice of pork with his eating knife, depositing it on his pewter plate. The meat was well roasted, crispy. His belly growled; he was hungry after the full day of riding.

  ‘Tonight. But after I’ve eaten. She’ll take the news badly and I have no intention of missing such a fantastic spread of food!’ Gilbert patted his stomach. ‘But I’ll give her two or three days to pack, which means I can avail myself of this wonderful hospitality for a little longer.’

  ‘Two or three days?’ Bruin grinned at him. ‘Is the King not waiting for her?’

  ‘Edward will meet me at my castle in a sennight.’ Gilbert wiped his greasy mouth with a square linen napkin. ‘That gives me enough time to travel there with her and the children. Goodness knows how many wagons she’ll need. You know what these women are like.’

  A wisp of memory snaked out, gripping Bruin by the throat; the sparkling granite in his eyes dulled instantly. No, he thought, no, he did not know what these women were like. He crushed the stem of his goblet, the angular pewter work pressing into the coarse pads of his fingers. He had pushed his own chance away and then it had been too late. His heart pleated in on itself, folding tighter and tighter. For the last year, by his own choice, his world had been reduced to a solely masculine one, harsh and brutal.

  ‘But…of course…’ Gilbert spluttered into his goblet, suddenly realising the insensitivity of his words, remembering, too late, what had happened to Bruin. ‘I mean…’ His kind-hearted voice trailed away, bereft of words.

  ‘It’s fine, Gilbert.’ Bruin stared bleakly out across the great hall, seeing nothing. Sophie’s death, her tragic, pointless death, was well known amongst the circles of nobility, both here in England and across the Channel. After what had happened, unable to deal with the mantle of guilt that hugged his shoulders, the judging glances, Bruin had abandoned King Edward and followed the exiled Lord Despenser into the relentless life of a mercenary, living on his wits, fighting and battling on the open sea, uncaring whether he lived or died. But when King Edward summoned Despenser back to England, he had persuaded Bruin to come back and fight for him again. And he had come, for he had realised that fighting was the same, anywhere. It gave his black soul a reason for existence, even if that existence was as barren and cold as his heart. There was no softness in his life, no feminine fripperies or tinkling laughter. Those things were not for him. Not now. Not ever.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Gilbert’s voice nudged Bruin from his thoughts.

  ‘Sorry. What did you say?’ He gulped his wine, dragging his mind away from his memories.

  Gilbert smiled. ‘I see you found the maidservant. What happened to her?’

  Bruin forced his mind to concentrate on the present, staring at the food steaming slowly on his plate: roast pork, parsnips, a hunk of crusty bread. ‘She was caught in an animal trap and hurt her leg.’

  ‘Unlucky.’ Gilbert drew his breath in, sharply. ‘But why did she run when she saw us?’

  Bruin shrugged his shoulders. ‘She says she mistook me for someone else.’ He remembered her beautiful eyes, fear dilating the pupils as he approached her. ‘Someone who looked like me, apparently.’

  ‘Who could possibly look like you?’ Gilbert teased, thumping his pewter goblet down on the white damask tablecloth, chuckling at his own wit. Then his stubby eyelashes flew upwards as he looked at Bruin. ‘Apart from—’

  ‘My twin brother,’ Bruin finished for him. He rubbed at the coppery bristles on his chin. ‘I did think that. It’s possible they have seen each other, I suppose,’ he continued slowly, ‘but I wouldn’t have thought they moved in the same circles. And besides, I don’t think Steffen even ventured into Wales; he always had his sights set firmly on the English castles. But it doesn’t explain why she reacted as she did.’

  Gilbert grinned. ‘I hate to say it, but it sounds like you completely terrified her. And frankly, I’m not surprised. You’re in full chainmail, you haven’t shaved…’

  Bruin held his hand up. ‘Enough,’ he said, laughing. ‘I know—I’ll make an effort for the morrow.’ Disquiet threaded through him. He had no wish to go around scaring women; Gilbert’s words hung on his shoulders like a chastisement. Had his time as a mercenary changed him that much? Fighting and plundering had given him a warped sense of satisfaction; at the time, he was out for revenge, but against whom? He didn’t know. All he knew was that Sophie was dead and that it was his fault.

  Gilbert raised his goblet in welcome as Katherine climbed up to the dais. Half-rising from his seat, he bowed his head respectfully as she approached the table. Bruin and the other knights followed suit. She slipped in beside Gilbert, handing Bruin’s cloak across to him. ‘Here, my lord. Thank you for bringing my nursemaid back to me.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ Bruin murmured. Eyes, as blue as a kingfisher’s wing, leapt across his vision. His heart jumped at the memory. He scanned the hall, the throng of heads and bodies. He had watched her limp through the door, leaning heavily on her mistress, but then she had disappeared into the throng of people. He would have noticed if she had left; the only way out of this hall was by the main door, or through a curtained alcove set opposite to him, presumably leading to bedchambers above. Every woman in the place seemed to be wearing identical white wimples, drab-coloured dresses.

  ‘Now, my lords,’ Katherine said, as a servant pushed the heavy oak chair beneath her and she snapped a linen napkin across the red velvet of her gown. ‘Mayhap you would like to tell me what you are doing in such a remote corner of Wales.’

  * * *

  A dryness scraped Eva’s throat; her tongue, big and unwieldy, stuck to the roof of her mouth. She had been chewing a lump of bread for what seemed like hours, unwilling to swallow, worried that she might choke. Her eyelids drooped; all she wanted to do was climb the stairs to her bedchamber and fall into a deep, dreamless slumber. And forget.

  ‘Hey, Eva!’ A young lad to her right elbowed her sharply in the arm, laughing. ‘You should go to bed! You’re falling asleep at the table!’

  She jolted her lolling head into an upright position, staring hazily at her plate of uneaten food. ‘Help me, then,’ she said to the boy. ‘I’ve hurt my leg; I need to lean on you to reach the stairs.’

  He jumped up with a puppy-like willingness, springing back over the low bench. Eva eased herself up carefully, grabbing at the boy’s fragile-boned shoulder. She kept her actions deliberately slow, gradual, not wanting to draw any attention from the top table. The last thing she wanted was for Katherine to come rushing down to help. Or him.

  Her movements seemed laboured, unwieldy. The long trestle tables, the flaring torches, swam before her vision. Objects seemed hazy, edges blurred and undefined. What was the matter with her? All she had to do was reach that curtain across the doorway. The boy moved forward and she hopped to keep up with him, pressing down on his shoulder, injured leg raised up behind her.

  Pushing the curtain aside, she dismissed the boy. A thick rope curved up along the wall of the spiral stairs; that would serve her now. She would crawl on her hands and knees if need be. Her progress was painfully slow, but at last she reached the next floor, hopping along the corridor to the bedchamber she shared with Katherine and the children.

  Clicking up the iron latch carefully, she pushed inside, lurching clumsily across the polished elm floorboards to her truckle bed, tucked neatly against Katherine’s large four-poster bed. The chamber was dim, lit only by a single candle in an iron sconce, the flickering fla
me casting uneven shadows across the bumpy plaster. Over by a charcoal brazier, glowing with hot coals, Katherine’s three children slept, their small bodies bundled beneath huge furs. Angling herself down awkwardly, Eva lowered herself on to her bed, checking the bandage around the wound. Much as she hated to admit it, her leg seemed much better after Bruin’s deft handling. His cool, strong fingers grazing her skin.

  There was a muted tap at the door and Martha came in, carrying a jug of hot water. ‘The mistress bid me bring this to you.’ Her eyes flicked to the lone guttering candle and she clicked her tongue in irritation. ‘Ah, I should have brought you another light.’ An earthenware bowl sat on an oak coffer; she poured the steaming water into it, glancing at Eva. ‘What happened to you? They’re saying in the hall that the big knight hunted you down.’

  Her heart lurched at Martha’s choice of words. The girl was young, with a sense of the dramatic. Her plump hands dunked a linen washcloth into the bowl; it swirled around, absorbing the water. ‘I hurt my leg, that’s all,’ Eva replied shortly, an involuntary shiver coursing her slim frame. Hunted down. It had certainly felt like that, to hear that man’s shouts, the bulk of his body thrashing through the undergrowth, pursuing her. If it hadn’t been for that wretched trap, she would have escaped him easily.

  Martha’s eyes rounded. ‘They’re saying he was an outlaw, at sea with the exiled Lord Despenser.’

  Her heart jolted. Lord Despenser. A knight known for his cruelty, his barbaric methods. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ And yet, this knowledge of his past did surprise her, for although the knight had treated her in a brusque, matter-of-fact manner, he had been considerate. Up to a point.

  ‘Let me look.’ Martha approached the bed. ‘Lift your leg up on to the coverlet, so I can see it more clearly.’ Eva raised her leg. Martha eyed the stocking bound around Eva’s calf, the limp fringes of moss poking out. ‘Did you do this?’

  ‘He did,’ she admitted reluctantly. A pair of silver eyes startled her vision; she hunched forward uncomfortably. How could that man, that stranger, affect her thus, when he wasn’t even near her?

  Martha untied the knot, unravelling the woollen stocking with care. Three wounds gouged Eva’s pale flesh. ‘Mother of God,’ Martha said, ‘it looks like you have been bitten by a dog. I bet it hurts.’

  ‘Not as much as it did.’ The bleeding had stopped, thank God.

  ‘But the wounds look as if they might close up on their own? I’ll clean it for you; put a new bandage on. I don’t think you need stitches.’

  ‘I agree. I have some salve that will—’

  The door slammed back on its hinges. Katherine stood beneath the lintel, breathing heavily, her brown eyes furious. ‘He’s only gone and done it again!’ she cried out, marching into the chamber, flinging herself across the bed. Her slender feet, encased in leather slippers, swung clear of the floor. The gold beading worked across each slipper toe gleamed in the shadowed light. ‘That man—will be the bane—’

  ‘Hush, Katherine.’ Eva put a warning finger to her lips. ‘Don’t wake the children.’ Reaching up, she touched her friend’s sleeve. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  Katherine’s face crumpled, about to cry. Then she took an unsteady breath, drawing herself upright, smoothing one palm across the outspread velvet of her skirts, as if to calm herself. Spots of colour burned her cheeks. ‘Those knights downstairs,’ she enunciated slowly, ‘those knights have been sent by my dear uncle, the King, to escort me back to Lord Gilbert’s castle.’

  ‘But why?’ Eva whispered.

  ‘I am to be married.’ Katherine raised her head listlessly, her sable eyes enormous, worried. ‘Like you said, Eva, I am a wealthy widow; how could I possibly be allowed to keep all that money to myself? Edward wants to reward those men who have shown the utmost loyalty to him—and I—I am that reward,’ she finished bitterly. ‘Damn him! I knew this life couldn’t last! How I wish I were not related to him!’

  ‘He can’t do this, Katherine. He can’t force you!’

  But Katherine was nodding sadly. ‘He can, Eva. He is the King and my guardian. If I disobey, he will take my children away and throw me into a nunnery. Or worse, he might even kill me. The way he has been behaving lately, the methods he has been using to punish people who go against him, I wouldn’t be surprised. You of all people should understand this, Eva. How men can make your life a living hell!’

  With a swift tilt of her head, Eva indicated Martha’s silent figure, a warning to her friend to stay quiet. The servant hovered by the oak coffer, the washcloth hanging between her hands, beads of water dripping into the bowl. Martha’s eyes were avid, alive with curiosity, drinking in her mistress’s words like an elixir.

  ‘Martha, go. Do not repeat a word of what you have just heard to anyone.’ Katherine’s eyes were hard, stern. ‘Otherwise I will dismiss you instantly.’ Collecting the bowl and jug from the coffer, the maid ambled from the chamber, slopping water as she walked, trailing glistening spots across the wooden floorboards.

  Both women remained silent until the door closed. Eva gripped Katherine’s hand. ‘I can’t let them take you like this. Not after everything you’ve done for me. There must be something we can do.’

  Katherine’s chin drooped to her chest, a forlorn, disheartened movement. As if she had given up already. Dry sobs racked her body; the pearls in her filigreed silver circlet trembled. ‘And there’s something else, Eva,’ she said, her voice low.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘That knight who brought you back—Lord Bruin.’ Katherine lifted her head, defeat dulling her eyes. ‘He’s asking about the Lady of Striguil.’

  * * *

  Eva slept fitfully, tossing and turning beneath woven blankets. Katherine had taken a long time to settle; she had helped her undress, brushing her hair with an ivory comb, plaiting the shining strands into two long braids for the night. Now she could hear Katherine’s regular breathing from the high bed beside her, her friend’s slim frame relaxed into a deep sleep against the goose-down pillows.

  She stared into the shadows of the chamber, eyes straining with tiredness. With the candle extinguished, only a faint light emerged from the charcoal brazier, one hot coal emitting a feeble glow. Her leg throbbed, but less so now. After Katherine had climbed into bed, she had cleaned the wounds herself, applying salve and rebandaging her leg.

  Katherine’s words churned in her mind and refused to let her sleep, worrying at her like a dog with a bone. Why, oh, why would Count Bruin be asking about Striguil? And, more specifically, asking about her? Before Katherine had gone to sleep, she had taken pains to reassure Eva that Lord Bruin had discovered nothing about Eva’s true identity. At the table, still reeling from the news of King Edward’s plans for her, Katherine had informed Bruin that she had never heard of the name Striguil, let alone a lady who resided there and he had seemed to be satisfied with that.

  The simple lace at the neck of Eva’s nightgown tickled her chin and she pushed the fabric away, turning her head towards the window. Her braided hair rustled against the straw-filled pillow. Her mind scuttled fruitlessly down one path after another, chased by a pair of silvery eyes, a hard, determined mouth. Through the rippled glass, light from the rising moon tipped over the window ledge and stretched down into the chamber, pooling on the floorboards like milky liquid. How on earth could she and Katherine extricate themselves from this mess?

  Beneath the window, a bundled lump on one of the low pallets shifted around, then sat up, furs falling off young shoulders. Alice. Golden hair fell down in a tumbled mass over a white nightgown; Eva’s heart panged with guilt. While she was downstairs, Martha had put the children to bed, obviously forgetting, or simply not bothering, to braid the girls’ hair. The child made a small mewling sound, reaching out towards Eva.

  She threw back her blankets, welcoming the distraction of the child from h
er own troubled thoughts. Tentatively, she placed her weight upon her injured leg, please to find it was less painful now. She moved with a hitching, but bearable gait across to Alice, kneeling down beside the pallet bed.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling?’ she whispered, placing her hand on Alice’s head. The child’s golden hair, exactly like her mother’s, was silky beneath her palm.

  ‘I feel sick.’

  Eva peered into Alice’s face. The child’s skin was pinched, drawn, but at the same time, flushed with a leaden colour. She placed her palm against Alice’s forehead. Her skin was hot. Very hot.

  ‘You lie down, Alice; I will fetch some water.’ Straightening up, Eva removed the furs from around the child, leaving a single sheet. Alice had a fever, not unusual in someone of her age, but she needed to be cooler, before her temperature raged out of control. She would go down to the kitchens, fetch some water from the well. ‘Don’t wake your mother,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be back very soon.’

  Seizing a blanket from her own bed, Eva flung it around her shoulders. She took the candle from the bedside table, touching the wick to the flame within the charcoal brazier, watching it flare. The chapel bell had tolled midnight as she had lain awake with her troubled thoughts; everyone would be tucked up in bed now, especially on such a chill, snowy night. Katherine would have given the guest chambers to the visiting knights, chambers on the other side of the bailey, a lengthy distance away. And thank goodness for that, she thought with relief, as she pulled the door open.

  As she stepped forward, her toes collided with a large bulk lying across the threshold.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Eva stopped. Fear scythed through her, her muscles tensing. She slithered her foot back along the floorboards in a gradual movement, eyes running over the shadowy outline below her. One of Gilbert’s soldiers lay curled across the threshold, surcoat rumpled around brawny thighs, a creased leather belt around his hips. His broad sturdy back was curled towards her.