“I always thought you shouldn’t cry in front of a dying man,” she said with a smile. “Makes him give up hope.”
When Kit awoke, she was alone. Morning light edged through the tiny cracks of the tent as she dressed in a clean gown. She emerged from the shelter and stretched, glancing around among the trees to find no one about. Somehow, eighty men had disappeared without making a sound. At least not enough sounds to wake her.
One weathered tarp remained, strung between two stout trees, and a small fire burned underneath, shielded from the misty morning. Kit heard a sound in the distance and saw Janus, hitched to a tree. Snorting and prancing, the stallion was anxious to move.
She made her way down to the water’s edge and washed quickly, all the while wondering where her husband was. Kit even had a moment’s pause when she thought Wolf might have left her, but immediately knew how foolish that thought was. She would have liked to believe he couldn’t leave her after the previous night’s intimacy and passion, but knew that duty was his reason for staying. His pride and sense of duty wouldn’t allow him to lose a wife, no matter how little——or how much—she meant to him.
She returned to the fire and sat on a soft, dry spot of grass to brush and plait her hair. And as she did, Kit prayed her thanks to God that the Duke of Carlisle hadn’t turned out to be the decrepit old Duke of her premarital imaginings. Her conscience told her that she should be confessing her shame for her night of wild abandon with Wolf, yet her feelings for her husband canceled out any guilt she might have felt.
Wolf had sent most of the men on ahead, unwilling to awaken his sweet wife to face the saddle so early. He was aware that their progress might be slow and he wanted to savor this time alone with her, before they arrived at Windermere, before all his new responsibilities closed in.
While Kit still slept, Wolf stationed a troop of twelve men up on a ridge to their southeast, to await his departure from the lake area. The men were instructed to follow the duke and his wife at a discreet distance, providing protection at the rear while Kit and Wolf rode on at their leisure.
He returned to the lake and found Kit on the matted lawn near the fire, brushing the long wavy hair that he knew would smell like flowers when he pressed his face to it. Her skirts were spread about her, and Wolf read a look of amusement on her face. He patted Janus as he walked by and saw Kit look up. The smile she gave him warmed his soul.
“Are you hungry?” he asked when he reached her. He had left a bowl of food, covered and warming near the fire.
Kit blushed and looked down when he spoke to her, and he was chagrined to lose any of the unexpected intimacy they’d experienced during the night. Not allowing her embarrassment to come between them, he crouched down next to her and took the hairbrush, then laid a hand at her cheek and kissed her brow.
“Here’s a bit of meat left from the night’s meal. Old Darby, our cook, saved this for you.”
She broke her fast as Wolf resumed brushing her hair for her, sending shivers down her scalp and neck at the sheer pleasure of it.
“Don’t bind it today, Kit,” he said. “Your hair pleases me. I prefer it loose.”
It seemed that she was still uneasy with him, and he had no intention of letting her continue so. Yet he was unsure how to proceed. Women were so different. What would help to put her at. ease? More touching? Conversation?
“What were you thinking of just now?”
“Thinking of?”
“Yes. When I came back, you were smiling as you brushed your hair. You seemed amused about something.”
She blushed again, remembering her thoughts. “It was nothing.”
“Come now. Surely not ‘nothing’?” He sat next to her and set the brush down, then caressed a curl behind her ear. “Kit, last night—”
“No, no,” she interjected, clearly not wanting him to think she’d been dissatisfied in some way. “It wasn’t that at all.” Her brows settled back to a relaxed position and the look of vague amusement returned to her deep green eyes. She looked sweet and innocent, yet he remembered with fresh awareness, her sensual abandon during the night.
Wolf didn’t think he’d ever get enough of her. He never knew it would be like this, with an insatiable hunger for her.
“I was remembering something...”
“Go on.”
“When the Earl of Langston told me that I was to marry the Duke of Carlisle, I assumed Carlisle would turn out to be a wrinkled-up, moldy old man.”
“You mean he didn’t tell you I was Carlisle?” His hand stopped toying with the stray golden tendrils.
“No, Wolf,” she said. “No one told me. Why do you think I fainted when I saw you the night of the banquet?”
“Why, Kit? Why did you faint?”
“I...I don’t really know,” Kit replied, embarrassed that she had fainted and taken aback at Wolf’s sudden intensity. “I’d been upset ever since learning about King Henry. The old king, I mean—being my father. I’d always been led to believe my father was an honorable man...wed to my mother...that he’d died on the continent before my birth...” She shivered, having to face again the lie that had been her life and the truth that could ruin it forever.
Wolf moved closer and put his arm around her. Could it be true that she hadn’t known he was the one to whom she was betrothed? That when he’d seen her crying on Rupert Aires’ shoulder, it wasn’t because she was distraught over the prospect of marrying him?
“I discovered in one day that I was...a bastard...and promised to some old duke—”
He interrupted by turning her face and kissing her gently.
“—and...so I was smiling this morning because I’m...I am well pleased that my husband turned out not to be a broken-down old tyrant of a duke—”
He kissed her a bit more fervently then.
“—but merely Sir Gerhart, a knight most pleasing to the eye—”
His lips moved down her throat as his hands unfastened her lacings and pushed the bodice of her gown down, over her shoulders to her waist.
“—considerate to a fault—”
Wolf’s fingertips brushed over her nipples, causing an immediate response.
“—and immensely...talented...”
She never finished the thought.
Wolf situated her in front of him on Janus, sidesaddle, for the ride home—to Windermere. She was a bit tender, though not unbearably so, and they rode comfortably together, without a trace of shyness between them now.
“Tell me about Windermere, Wolf,” she said, nestled against his chest as they rode in the late morning mist. The ground seemed greener and the tree trunks blacker, and Kit felt content and secure encircled in her husband’s strong arms.
“I was born at Windermere,” he said, his warm breath gently stirring the hair at the top of her head. Wolf never cared to speak of his past or his family, but he found that he wanted to tell Kit. In some undefined way, his past was now hers. And once he’d told her, he hoped they could close the door on it together. “I was the youngest son of Bartholomew and Margrethe Colston. John was my eldest brother, six years older than me, and there was Martin, who died of lung fever when he was around twelve. I must have been about seven or eight at the time.
“My mother left England after Martin died, to stay for a time with her parents. John and I were no comfort for her, and I don’t suppose my father was, either, though I was too young at the time to understand much of what happened.”
For months, Margrethe’s melancholy over Martin’s death deepened to a degree that worried Bartholomew. Thinking she might benefit from a change, he had his wife taken to Bremen, to spend time with her parents, and hopefully to recover from the death of her young son.
The plan might have worked, but when Bartholomew and John were lured to Bremen and killed during their journey several months later, Margrethe’s fate was sealed. She never recovered from her. grief, and spent the subsequent twenty years wasting away, bit by terrible bit.
“But she ha
d you, didn’t she?” Kit asked. “Didn’t your survival give her a reason to—”
“No, Kit,” he said quietly. “It didn’t.”
They rode on in silence for a while. Kit held in her mind an image of her husband as a boy, experiencing the loss of his father and brothers, needing to share his own grief with his mother. But Wolf’s mother had withdrawn into herself and had no room for him. Kit vowed that she would always be there for Wolf. And their children.
“Who was responsible for the ambush that killed your father and John? Was it ever found out?”
“The Marquess of Kendal, who was my father’s closest friend and ally, tried to investigate the attack and the rumors that followed my father’s death,” Wolf explained. “But he was put off every time by the king. Henry—your father—was tremendously insecure at the time, with plots and threats and small revolts going on all around him. It was years before Henry knew whom to trust, and even then, he couldn’t be sure.
“Kendal said he felt certain that Clarence and Philip Colston had been behind the attack, but he could prove nothing—not until I showed him the parchment we found outside Agatha’s window at Windermere.
“Just about the time Bart Colston and his sons departed England for Germany, an assassination attempt was made on King Henry. The cutthroat who was hired to carry out the deed fumbled it, but managed to escape capture. However, though he escaped, the man accidentally dropped a purse containing a few gold coins and a missive bearing the old Colston seal. The contents of that purse became conclusive evidence in Henry’s mind, that the Earl of Windermere was responsible for the attempt on his life. Further incriminating the earl, the Colstons all ‘fled’ England right at that time, presumably in case the assassination attempt failed.
“One of Henry’s scribes at Westminster deciphered the document. Kendal had already recognized the seal as that of the Welshman, Owen Glendower, but most of the words were faded and distorted—nearly impossible for us to make out.”
“What did it say?”
Wolfs voice was cold. “In the letter, Glendower merely congratulated my Uncle Clarence and his son, Philip, for their ploy to be rid of Henry and gain an earldom in the process. He fully appreciated the twist of fate ensuring that Windermere fell into Clarence’s hands as well as placing the blame on Bartholomew for Tommy Tuttle’s handiwork.”
“Tommy Tuttle!”
“The man hired to kill King Henry. I never did find Tuttle himself,” Wolf said, “but some of his cronies still hang about London. I gathered that he was a nasty piece of work with Welsh connections, but I couldn’t find anyone willing to talk about his activities with Glendower twenty years ago.”
“But you didn’t need him to prove your case to Henry?”
“No, though I wanted to present every bit of evidence I could find. I did discover, however, that Tuttle could not read.”
“That shouldn’t have been a great surprise, Wolf. There are not so many who can—”
“No, it wasn’t a great surprise. But why would an illiterate felon carry with him a note giving explicit instructions on murdering the king, along with methods of escape and then conveniently drop the purse with the note and the payment inside?”
“Hmm. I suppose Henry also concluded that your father had been falsely implicated?”
“Aye. He did.”
“What about Philip now? And Agatha?” They leaned a little to the left in the saddle to avoid some branches that hung low over the track.
“Well—Agatha,” he said. “We had always assumed she’d been part of it.”
“We?”
“My grandfather and I,” he replied. “He is Rudolph Gerhart, Margrave of Bremen.”
So Bridget had been right, Kit thought. Wolf was the grandson of a prince.
“When Hugh got me to the abbey after the attack—”
“Hugh?”
“Hugh Dryden. You know him, Kit. He accompanied us from Somerton.”
Yes, of course she remembered Hugh. He was a powerful but wiry man, possibly a few years older than Wolf. He was rather plain-faced with dull brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Kit remembered that Hugh was never far from Wolf, though it occurred to her that she hadn’t seen him in weeks.
“It was Hugh who saved my life and got me to the abbey of St. Lucien after we were ambushed. As a youth, he’d been sent to foster with our family, so he happened to be with us when we were attacked and he hasn’t left me since. But I digress.
“It was my grandfather who believed that Clarence and Philip were responsible for the deaths of my father and brother.” His voice was thick with emotion, but he went on. “I was too young to understand it then, but when I came of age and started talking about returning to Windermere, he told me his suspicions.”
“And that’s why you used your grandfather’s name when you returned to England?”
He nodded. “I couldn’t very well come back declaring I was Wolf Colston, heir to Windermere, could I?”
Kit agreed.
“My grandfather never really believed I’d ever prove anything against Philip, but since I am not Rudolph’s heir, it didn’t particularly matter to him when I left Bremen. He never had much use for me. As for Nicholas...” one side of Wolfs mouth twisted up, “...he was never a favored grandson, either. Old Rudy will likely turn up his toes when word reaches Bremen that Nick is now a viscount.”
Kit smiled, though she didn’t really understand why Wolf’s grandfather would be chagrined to find that his grandsons had done well.
“My plan was to serve Henry and win his trust, then go to Windermere and find a way to expose Philip. I’d never had any idea that Agatha would turn up the evidence I needed. There were rumors that she died years ago, but you saw her. And you didn’t believe she was a ghost?”
“No. She was flesh and blood.”
“Well, whether or not she was involved in the conspiracy with Clarence and Philip, she apparently recognized me when we were at Windermere—”
“I couldn’t tell you at the time, but she called you ‘the wolf.”’
“Ah?”
“Or ‘my wolf,’ actually. I think she may have told me you were the rightful earl, but she spoke in riddles and rhymes. I think she’s mad.”
“Well, for some reason, she wanted to see Philip fall from grace,” he said. “I can’t think of any other reason why she would have given you my father’s seal.”
Kit shrugged.
“1 don’t doubt she and Philip have been on tenuous terms since Clarence’s death. In fact, John Beauchamp thinks Agatha may have been a virtual prisoner in that tower room for years.”
“I wonder if anyone else knows of the secret door.”
“I doubt it,” Wolf said. “I spent the first nine years of my life there, exploring every corner of the castle and I was surprised when you told me of it.”
“I wonder what happened to her.”
“Frankly, I’m more interested in what happened to Philip.”
“And Hugh,” Kit asked. “Where has he been these last few weeks, anyway?”
“At Windermere,” Wolf said. “Keeping track of my cousin, Philip.”
Chapter Sixteen
They had ridden several hours when Wolf finally led Janus off to the side of the beaten track near a broken-down, uninhabited stone hut. He swung off the beast’s back and reached up to help Kit slide down.
They walked west through a heavily wooded area with rugged hills and huge granite outcroppings scattered among the trees. Wolf took Kit’s hand, and they made their own path through the thick underbrush of the woods. It was a bit like a fairy place, Kit thought, with beads of moisture still on the thickly growing ferns. The sunlight filtered in through the tall shafts of the trees and reflected on the sparkling water droplets. It was misty in the higher ground and craggy hills jutted up out of the haze like gnarled old fingers of a long-forgotten troll.
Wolf cleared the way as they climbed one such wet, rocky hill, and Kit heard the sounds of flowi
ng, splashing water as they moved higher.
“Where are we?” she asked as they made their way to a wide ledge carved out of the hillside. Kit wondered if they were going to climb to the top.
“Windermere land,” Wolf replied as he led her around to the far side of the rock. “There’s a place I want you to see.”
Kit picked up her pace and followed more closely, warmed by the thought of Wolf bringing her to a special place. He’d said nothing of his feelings on the marriage, yet she sensed acceptance in him. In fact, if his pleasure during their encounters the previous night and in the morning came near to matching hers, she was certain he couldn’t help but have some tender feelings for her. The thought brought hope that the marriage would yet prove satisfactory .
They finally came to a broad, flat clearing carved into the hill. It was bordered on her left by a sheer rock face where a thin sheet of water slid down the wall and flowed into a gentle brook, high above the surface of the forest.
“Where does it go?” Kit asked, enthralled. It was a beautiful place; a world apart.
“Come and see.”
They walked on, and a bit farther, Kit could see where the burn traced a downward course until it too, became a waterfall. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. It was bright and sunny in the high clearing where they stood, with rich green moss and clumps of pink sundew growing in tufts of soil that seemed to have been left accidentally in the clefts of the rocks.
They were high enough to be able to see beyond the trees. Wolf stood behind Kit, put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face north.
“Windermere Castle,” he said.
In the distance, Kit could trace the narrow track they’d traveled as it turned into a more reputable thoroughfare, moving through the valley closer to the town and the castle. Surrounded by fertile, well-tilled fields, the pretty town huddled below the castle walls. The dark gray fortress itself stood on elevated ground with a tall, thick stone wall surrounding it. Three towers were visible in the distance, and a flag flew from a staff on the highest of the three towers.
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