“So be it! You heard the lady,” Philip finally declared. “Stop your sniveling, boy, and get to it!”
Kit’s heart was pounding so hard, she was certain Philip could hear it. “Thank you, my lord,” she breathed. She gave the boy’s shoulders an almost imperceptible squeeze and when she released him, asked his name.
“Alfie, milady.” His voice was very small. “Alfie Juvet.”
“Very good, Alfie. Your first task will be to help me scrape off some of this mud. Come. Take me to your good mother. Excuse me, my lord,” she said to Philip. “I’ll rejoin you shortly.” The boy followed as Kit left the group. “Do you live nearby?”
“Yes, milady,” he replied, taking the lead. “Down this lane.”
“Is your mother at home?”
“I—I don’t know for sure, what with the fair and all...” She thought he was going to cry again and put a gentle hand on his shoulder to reassure him. He had lost his hat in the mud, and he tossed his head back to throw the long, dank hair out of his eyes.
“It’s all right, Alfie. We’ll manage.” She turned around to be sure they weren’t being followed by the earl or any of his party and was startled to see Wolf. She hadn’t expected the tall, dark knight there. What’s more, she didn’t particularly want to see him. His mere presence forced her to think about Countess Agatha’s words and riddles, and Kit had too many other things to worry about right now. His lordship, the earl, was the first of those worries. Kit sensed that Philip was a dangerous man, and she knew she had to keep her wits about her as long as she remained in his presence.
“Right here, milady.” Entering the modest but well-equipped kitchen of an unassuming house in the lane, Alfie went ahead, calling for his mother.
No one replied.
“Apparently she is not in,” Wolf remarked when he caught up to them. “Water and clean rags will do nicely, lad. Fetch them for the lady.”
“Yes, m’lord.” Alfie scrambled to search through his mother’s cupboards for what was needed, then poured fresh water from a pitcher into a basin. Alfie saturated one rag, squeezed it out and started to work on Kit’s cloak.
“I’m sorry for ruining your cape, milady. I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t mean it. And don’t worry. It’ll come clean when it’s properly laundered,” she said. “You know, I recall a few blunders of my own when I was your age.” She didn’t mention that she also understood the punishments that resulted.
Alfie looked up at Kit, hardly able to believe her words. Looking at her now, he couldn’t imagine her running through muddy streets under any circumstances. “Yes, milady.”
“I have a name, Alfie,” she said. “It’s Kathryn, though I’m called ‘Kit’ by my friends.” She began washing her hands in the basin and feeling more at ease in the humble little kitchen than she’d felt in days.
Wolf picked up the other clean rag and dampened it. He took Kit’s chin in one hand and turned her face towards the light so he could clean the mud off her cheek and nose. “You might have mentioned to Philip that you’re partial to wearing mud,” he remarked.
Kit blushed and tried to ignore the huge knight and the sudden thudding of her heart in her chest. She was speechless. He made her nervous, even if he was only jesting with her.
Kit spoke to the boy. “When we return to the earl, you’ll have to be particularly respectful, Alfie. I fear he will not be pleased to have you trailing us, so try to remain unseen and—”
“Hold still, will you, Kit? I’ve no wish to hurt you,” Wolf said gruffly, demanding her attention.
Kit held perfectly still and studied the stonework of the fireplace. Then she dropped her gaze to the rough-hewn table. She thought Wolf was being immensely gentle with her already and wondered how he could be any more careful with her bruised cheek and eye. She should have expected his kindness when all she’d known from this man was gentleness—even when he’d been angry at her. But she hadn’t experienced much kindness before.
Dear God, how was she supposed to keep a clear thought when Wolf was standing close enough that she could smell the leather hauberk he wore and his clean, masculine scent? She knew if she looked up to his eyes, she was near enough to see the flecks of silver in the gray and practically count each of his long, black lashes.
“—’tis the best I can do, mil...er, Lady Kit,” Alfie said, standing away to check his work. The cloak was far from clean, but the worst had been washed off.
“This will be sufficient, Alfie,” she was nearly breathless with Wolfs nearness. If only he would touch her again...kiss her... She trembled at the impertinent thought but quickly gathered her wits. “Now, do you have a clean tunic to put on?” Kit looked up briefly into Wolfs darkening eyes and saw a puzzlement brewing there to match her own. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember the color of Rupert’s eyes.
Chapter Five
The earl proudly showed off the town as though he were personally responsible for making it so fine. He gloated so much over every little stand of bricks, every little nook and bridge, that Kit was very quickly weary of his company.
Not to say that she’d been particularly fond of the earl since meeting him the night before. Besides the man’s obvious arrogance, Kit sensed a coldness to him that nearly made her shiver when he was near. It would have pleased her no end to be able to leave Windermere straightaway, but there was Bridget to consider, and she needed rest in order to become well again. And there was Wolf, too. Kit didn’t think she’d be able to sway him into leaving until he was ready.
Alfie followed her about the fair all day, carrying everything faithfully and maintaining a respectful and contrite bearing. She tried to reassure him many times and smooth over his little blunders. But Philip reacted to Alfie with a meanness that stopped just short of cruelty, and it chilled Kit to think how the earl would behave if left alone with the boy.
Wolf kept himself occupied at the fair. Kit caught herself looking around frequently to see if she could catch sight of the baffling man, and often found him talking with the merchants, yeoman and other townsmen. There was an ease with which he got along with the people he met, and Kit could see that they liked and respected him.
Much to her dismay, Kit noticed several ladies in the earl’s party who tried to catch Wolf’s eye. When they succeeded, his rewarding smiles were devastating, even to Kit, who was never the recipient. Kit was all too aware that he didn’t have any smiles for her. Only frowns and scowls. And puzzled looks. She knew she was merely an annoying curiosity to him.
It irritated her unreasonably when the knight gave his unwavering attention to Lady Christine Wellesley, the daughter of a neighboring baron. Christine was a red-haired beauty, with deep blue eyes, and dimples in her cheeks. Her elegant gown was close-fitted and fashionable. The lady’s hair was exposed, with only the sheerest of silk veils partially covering it. And when Wolf smiled at her, Kit wanted to murder the woman.
But why? She was the first to admit she had no claim on Sir Gerhart, and she knew she couldn’t possibly compare to the lovely Lady Christine. But it riled her inexplicably. Kit turned away from them and reasserted to herself that she belonged to Rupert Aires. And she was anxious to reach him in London before he went searching for her in Northumberland.
When they returned to the castle, Philip wouldn’t allow Kit to go inside. He took her arm as she reluctantly moved along the paths with him through the gardens, some distance away from the castle. More than anything, she wanted to go up to Bridget. But no matter how she pleaded with the earl, he wouldn’t allow her to part company just yet.
“You’re so quiet, Kathryn,” Philip said as they reached a pretty garden pond. It was a lovely setting, with a carved wooden bench nearby and several twisted paths leading out in different directions.
Philip guided her to the bench and had her sit, then stood looking down at her, placing one booted foot on the seat next to her. He leaned an arm across one knee.
“I’m quiet because I�
�m a bit fatigued, my lord. It’s been a long day,” Kit finally answered. She hoped he would take the hint and let her go. “Besides, my cousin is ill and I—”
“There is a matter at hand about which I’d like to speak...though I’m not quite sure whom to address,” he said, frowning. “Just who is your guardian, Kathryn?”
He was talking in circles, and Kit didn’t know what he was getting at. It was irritating that he had no appreciation for her worry over Bridget’s welfare.
“Is it your father, Baron Somers? Or the King, as rumor suggests?”
“I’m sorry, my lord, I myself don’t really know. No one has told me of any change in guardianship, though I’ve heard Sir Gerhart say that I’m under King Henry’s protection.”
“Hmm.” He stroked his pointed brown beard with the tips of his fingers.
“I’m in need of a wife.”
She almost choked.
“As you know, Lady Clarisse expired some months ago...”
“My lord, you have taken me completely unawares. I had not anticipated—”
“Yes, yes, well, 1 appreciate all that but whom do you suppose I should petition? Henry? Your father?”
By God, he was callous indeed. Poor Clarisse, Kit thought. The woman was barely cold in her grave, and her husband was already trying to replace her. Angry now, Kit stood abruptly and moved a few paces away from him. In view of his indelicacy, she saw no reason to indulge in any form of diplomacy. He had been rude and unfeeling all day, first with the boy from town and later, when some of the townsmen tried to speak to him. His behavior had been embarrassing, but this was the last straw. Kit was fed up with the arrogant earl.
“I don’t think—” Her pointed response was interrupted by a group of men ambling down one of the paths towards the pond, who were talking and laughing loudly. Their last jest was particularly funny, judging by the uproarious laughter that overtook them when they reached the pond. Kit recognized Hugh, Edward and Douglas, all of them Wolf’s men, who tried, amid tearful regressions into laughter, to apologize to the earl for interrupting his peaceful afternoon. Egbert, Ranulf and Claude hung back sheepishly, apologizing and turning to go.
Their hilarity was infectious, though, and Kit found herself smiling, then nearly laughing out loud at Wolfs men. They posed a ridiculous picture—six great knights, all guffawing and slapping their thighs. The earl, however, did not appear amused at all, and practically dragged Kit away, muttering angrily. She suppressed a chuckle, thinking that the jest this time was on the earl. And she couldn’t think of anyone more deserving.
Smiling at his irritation, she followed along obediently until they reached the castle entrance, where Wolf stood on the steps, casually tying a leather thong to one of his saddle packs. He barely looked up as they passed, only enough to meet Kit’s eyes for a second. However, with a growing suspicion, she noticed that he put away his work as soon as she passed by with the earl. She also didn’t miss the fact that Sir Wolf wore a vague expression of satisfaction as well, not unlike the one worn by the cat that swallowed the field mouse.
Blanche Hanchaw greeted the earl anxiously as he entered the great hall with Kit.
“Yes, yes, Blanche.” Philip was unmistakably preoccupied. “We’re back.”
“If I might have a moment...”
Philip still held Kathryn’s elbow and was about to guide her somewhere when the Hanchaw woman attempted to draw the earl away.
“...’tis a matter of some importance...er...one of your...guests...my lord...”
The housekeeper’s words and manner caused the earl some hesitation. He released the grip he had on Kit’s arm, though he kept her hand and kissed it. There was a disturbing glint in his eye when he looked at her, and Kit repressed a shudder when his cool lips met the warm skin on the back of her hand. “Until we sup, my lady.”
Thankfully, Kathryn was dismissed, at which point she tore up the staircase in a rather undignified manner in order to get to her chamber. She had worried about Bridget all day and felt guilty about leaving her with only the maids to tend her.
Kit rounded the corner at full tilt and drew up short, for Wolf was standing in the corridor near his door, his arms folded over his broad chest, the saddle pack draped over his shoulder. He looked dark and ominous as well as handsome and terribly masculine in the dim hall. Kit was sure that at the moment, she embodied everything he meant when he called her “Sprout.”
“I wondered at the commotion on the stair,” he said, turning to face her. “You make quite an entrance, Lady Kit.”
And he was quite a presence, she thought, with blood rushing to her cheeks. She let her skirts fall back to cover her ankles, then straightened her wimple as well as her spine. She doubted any of the ladies at court ever blundered quite so spectacularly before the mighty Sir Gerhart. “I suppose I should thank you for rescuing me again just now.”
“That’s thrice by my reckoning, my lady.”
“Thrice?”
He merely inclined his head, content to let her figure it out.
“When do we leave Windermere, Sir Gerhart?” she asked, ignoring the tally.
“Weary of the place?”
“’Tis the company that tries my patience,” she replied with a sigh. “Windermere itself is a wonderful estate. And the town...it’s more impressive than any I’ve ever seen.”
Satisfied by her answer, Wolf told her to be prepared to leave two mornings hence.
Bridget’s condition had worsened while she was gone. Kit sat on the. edge of the bed and felt the old woman’s brow. It was cool and damp.
“I won’t be denyin’ it,” Bridget said to Kit, “I feel a mite worse...than just a cold on my chest.” The old woman was quite short of breath, and the words didn’t come easily.
She was suddenly taken by a spasm of coughing, and Kit was alarmed to see that she was coughing up blood. Kit pulled the blanket away from Bridget’s feet and saw that they were swollen as were her ankles, and legs, halfway up her shinbone. She put her ear to Bridget’s chest and listened to her heart beat, just the way she had been taught by Brother Theodore.
The symptoms indicated that Bridget’s heart was failing. It was beating erratically, and Kit could hardly feel the throb of it in the old woman’s wrists.
“Maggie, go and fetch the gardener, Will Rose, for me. Quick!” Kit ordered. “If you can’t find him, try to find someone who can get some of his foxglove powder.”
The old woman was lethargic and hard-pressed to stay awake. Kit experienced a sense of panic, knowing full well that only a miracle could save her old friend.
“Bridget, how long have your feet been swelling?”
“Oh...” The old woman tried to think of some evasion, but was unable to, not with her Kit looking her straight in the eye. “...some months now...Brother Theodore...he’s been giving me something to help it.” She seemed so frail now. Her eyelids were practically transparent, and Kit could even see thin blue veins running through them. “Did ye...enjoy the fair?”
“Yes, it was lovely.” Kit was so distracted, she hardly knew what she’d answered. How could she have gone away and spent the day at the stupid, frivolous fair while Bridget lay here—
“And the earl...what...kind of man is he?”
“You must save your strength, Bridget,” Kit implored her friend. “I’ll tell you of the fair and the earl later, when your strength has returned.”
Bridget nodded once, then drifted off to sleep again. Kit slid down to kneel on the floor next to the bed. She picked up Bridget’s cool hand and laid her head on the bed next to her. There she waited for Maggie to return.
Will Rose himself returned with the maid. Kit hovered around him whilst he examined poor Bridget and agreed with Kit’s opinion that the foxglove was needed. He drew Kit away from the bed to talk quietly while they mixed the powdered leaves with water.
“’Tis poison, as ye well know, milady,” he admonished her. “Give her only this much and no more, else her heart will s
top altogether.”
“I know.”
“Give her this. I’ll fetch the barber.” He also brought Father Fowler to administer Extreme Unction, the last rites of the church.
Bridget drifted in and out of consciousness all evening. The bloodletting performed by the barber caused no immediate improvement and Kit sat on a stool next to Bridget’s bed, holding her hand, waiting, soothing the old woman whenever she awakened. A footman came to light Kit’s way down the steps to dinner, but Kit instructed him to give her regrets to the earl. She did not intend to leave Bridget again until she was well.
It was soon thereafter that Wolf appeared, having missed Kit in the great hall. She didn’t realize he was there until she felt a gentle and unexpected hand on her shoulder.
“How does she fare?” His tone was quiet, just more than a whisper.
Kit had been composed until he asked her the question, but the gravity of Bridget’s condition brought her close to tears. She swallowed the lump in her throat, looked up at Wolf and shook her head, hardly trusting her voice not to crack. “It’s her heart. She never told me.”
Bridget awoke for a moment and saw Wolf standing behind Kit. She smiled weakly at the tall knight. “Ah, ’tis ye, sir... Take care...of my Kitty.”
“I will.” The answer was so simple. So final.
“Don’t let her...go back...to the devil baron.”
Wolf shook his head reassuringly, and Kit implored Bridget to rest.
“He will kill her... One time...next time...he’ll surely kill her.”
“No,” Wolf said quietly.
“She tried to run...once...”
“Quiet now, old mother,” Kit said. “Save your breath...”
There was little that Kit could do for Bridget as the night wore on. Maggie slept in a chair near the fireplace while Kit kept her lonely vigil. Sometime near midnight, Bridget awoke again and spoke.
The Bride of Windermere Page 8
