The Lady Series, Two Books for the Price of One

by Denise Domning

  Jamie glared at Nick. All it wrung from Nick was a pleased and rasping chuckle. Graceton's master rose from his chair, the strength in his legs miraculously restored.

  “And what is this about being so feeble you cannot walk?” Jamie demanded.

  “It suits my purpose to have the man think me an invalid,” Nick replied, then shot his steward a chiding look. “You shouldn’t be here. Get you to the hall, Jamie, and entertain my guests. I need time to think and pray. This evening's been very informative. There's much for me to share with my heavenly Father.”

  Frustration made Jamie's fists clench. “I went running like a footman for you once but you’ll not find me so easily dismissed when there's no one else about. I demand you tell me what it is you plan.”

  “Trust me,” was all Nick said.

  “How,” Jamie pleaded, “when from what I’ve seen you're playing into the knight's hands?”

  Rather than offer a word to soothe his steward, Nick walked to the table between the pair of chairs. Catching the cup Lady Purfoy had used between his hands, he tilted it until he could see into its bowl. A snort of laughter left him as he set it back onto the table then he turned to look at his steward.

  “You’re wrong to worry over Lady Purfoy, you know. She told me Sir Edward has tried to use her in his scheming and that she refused him, just as you suspected.” As he spoke of his betrothed wife, amused pleasure came to life in Nick's gaze.

  A dark emotion shot through Jamie. He didn’t want Nick to think fondly of Lady Purfoy. This was just uncomfortable enough to set his teeth on edge and put harsh words on Jamie’s lips. “Always so quick to trust when there’s no safety in doing it here.”

  Nick's head tilted to the side as if that angle might aid him in his study of his steward. “I’ve never before seen you ignore the obvious. Indeed, I didn’t even know you were capable of it. Is this some general change caused by your time at court?”

  Here, Nick paused to eye Jamie for a moment. His gaze filled with amusement. “It isn’t. It’s this particular woman who has you unsettled.”

  Nick’s bold charge stirred disloyal sensations in Jamie. The memory of carrying Lady Purfoy in his arms rushed over him, bringing with it the feel of the smooth skin of her brow against his jaw and the lift of her breast against his chest. He caught a deep breath, only to discover the air in this room yet held traces of her perfume.

  Desperate not to confirm what Nick suggested, Jamie spewed the first words that came to lips. “It’s not her, it’s her mother. You cannot imagine the viper Lady Montmercy is. We have no idea what Lady Purfoy might have learned at that noble bitch's knee.”

  Astonishment and even more amusement widened Nick’s gaze. “Jamie, this isn’t like you at all. If you judged all folk by their relatives, I’d be my grandsire and you, your mother. All the proof I need of the lady’s good character lies in the way she came to my defense when Sir Edward sought access to Graceton’s chapel. Tell me why you think I’m wrong.”

  It was better that he died than admit to Nick that he battled his wayward feelings for Lady Purfoy. “I’m only saying that what we saw this evening might be naught but well-practiced mummery.” Jamie hid his grimace. It sounded ridiculous even to his ears.

  As his steward again refused to give him what he wanted, Nick’s jaw tightened beneath his already tight and scarred flesh. “Well then, if you’re so certain she means to betray me, what say we make us a trap, baiting it with a piece of false information. You say you’ll watch her correspondence. I wonder how long it'll take for our tidbit to find its way into her letters?”

  “So be it.” Jamie agreed swiftly.

  Nick blinked in surprise, his reaction saying he’d expected Jamie to refuse this idiotic and somewhat dishonorable plan.

  Jamie's brows lowered in refusal. Not this time. If Nick wasn’t going to admit to prying into his steward’s emotions or include Jamie in whatever it was he planned for this wedding, then Jamie wasn’t going to admit to any personal feelings regarding Lady Purfoy.

  They stared at each other for moment. Since neither was willing to retreat there was nowhere to go but forward.

  “Have you any suggestions as to the bait?” Graceton’s master finally asked, his tone sullen.

  “Sir Edward looks for proof of your disloyalty, so let's give him something that's an obvious lie. I shall leave a note in my office stating that we sent your cannon to Northumberland to aid in his rebellion.”

  “But I've sent my only cannon to Elizabeth,” Nick replied swiftly. “The queen knows that.”

  “Exactly,” Jamie retorted. “However, I doubt Sir Edward does. That way this tidbit can do you no harm if by some untoward chance I should miss it when the lady sends it on to court.”

  Nick's nod was brusque. “If that's settled, go and eat. Enjoy the evening as best you can, given that you’re intent on abhorring the company. And speed Tom on his way back here. I want out of this.” He plucked at his doublet.

  Jamie gave a half-hearted laugh, the sound a plea for Nick to forgive him his obstinance. “Poor Tom. Serving two masters is more than any man should have to bear,” he said in an old and familiar grumble. “You should get your own servant to tend to your needs.”

  Nick’s smile returned as he granted his steward the forgiveness Jamie craved. “Why, when I can use yours? Besides, Tom has no complaints, not when I'm filling his palm with silver for serving me where you and Cecily usually do. He's greedy enough for the coins since they move his wedding day that much closer.”

  Shock hit Jamie like a blow. “Wedding day? Tom is to marry?”

  Nick laughed until he coughed. Catching his breath, he came to lay a hand on his steward’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Jamie, but you really must learn there's more to the world than what you let yourself see of it. Now go. I truly do ache for my bed.”

  Blinking herself into alertness, Belle drifted up out of her dreams then grimaced. Peg's snores were nigh on rattling the wall between them. The maid gave a great snort then silence followed.

  With a quiet laugh, Belle rolled over and sighed. Lord, but it was heaven to be sleeping on her own mattress once again.

  Because the night was so warm and the room stuffy, she'd not only opened her windows before retiring, she'd left the bed curtains tied to their posts. Now as she waited for sleep to retake her, she let her gaze roam over her new living quarters.

  The wall across from her was a rolling landscape of grays and blacks as shadows played across the design carved into the paneling. At its center was her precious hearth, its mouth a gentle black arch. The brass firedogs rising from its brick floor were but a muted gleam in the night. The white plastered mantel above it was painted a silvery gray by the moonlight that streamed into the chamber.

  Not a breath of air stirred. Uncomfortable, Belle kicked her coverlet all the way down to her feet then removed her nightcap in the hopes of finding some relief. When that didn’t help, she pulled her loosened hair over her shoulder to bare her nape.

  Yawning, she let her thoughts drift back to this evening's meal. The food had been rich, with at least three dishes in each course. As for the wine, she cringed over her behavior whilst meeting Squire Hollier. That experience had been embarrassment enough to make her sip at but a single cup for the rest of the night.

  Since the dinner’s intent had been to display her to the residents of Graceton Castle, she’d sat at the hall’s head. It wasn’t an experience she wanted to repeat, nor would she need to, not until the wedding. From now on her meals could be taken in the parlor’s privacy.

  Unlike most betrothal dinners where the happy couple—or not so happy as the case might be—would be seated together, her new husband hadn’t been at her side to introduce her to his servants. Instead, Master James had once more acted as his employer’s proxy.

  A sigh escaped Belle. It had been hard enough to think of herself as Squire Hollier's wife when Master James stood with her before Richmond's chaplain to recite his emplo
yer’s vows. The task was even more difficult now that she knew she was to be the squire’s wife in name only.

  It was a shame Master James wasn't her husband. A tiny smile crept over her mouth. As near as she could calculate he had all the qualities she required of a life companion. But even if Squire Hollier didn’t want her, their vows made her just as married to him as any cherished wife would be. Adultery was adultery no matter how pretty the face the sinner tried to put upon it.

  Shifting on the mattress, she let her thoughts drift to Brigit’s behavior tonight. Because Graceton Castle had neither chamberlain nor ushers, positions usually manned by gentlemen with whom Brigit might sit, there had been nowhere appropriate for her except at the high table. With two men and two women at that table it was only natural they’d be placed as couples. This resulted in Brigit sharing a bench with Sir Edward.

  This hadn’t concerned Belle at first. After all, the governess swore hatred for the knight because of how he'd treated Richard. Moreover, Sir Edward had been surly and curt at the evening's start. But as the night progressed his mood seemed to soften. By the middle of the meal he and Brigit were conversing. This progressed to the trading of witticisms and open laughter. By the meal’s end Brigit had been obviously and deeply smitten.

  Sir Edward was a very handsome man. Tonight proved that he could be as charming as he was good-looking. Aye, but judging by Brigit's behavior this evening, Sir Edward might not be the only one doing the seducing.

  Disappointment in herself and Brigit filled Belle. She simply didn’t know what else to do with the girl other than warn her most sternly away from the knight. Belle doubted it would work. She just wasn’t the sort of mistress a woman of Brigit’s spirit required.

  A tendril of air whispered in through the windows. The bedcurtain rings, tiny ebony circles on an even darker pole, shifted with a gentle clack of wood against wood. Deep in the pit of Belle’s stomach, something pulled. The sensation was so odd that she put a hand to her midsection.

  As her stomach tension eased yet another breath of air sighed into the room, this one cooler still. Sitting up, Belle reached toward her knees to grab her coverlet. With the bed curtains open she could see to the windows. She frowned. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized air could look heavy, but that was how it appeared in the casement as tendrils seemed to swirl and shift, congealing into a thick darkness.

  Another puff of air hit Belle, this one so icy it raised gooseflesh on her arms. She caught a sharp breath. Well now, the weather was turning indeed.

  As she slipped from her bed to close the windows she caught the distant sound of weeping. Thinking it was Lucy, awake in the night and frightened at finding herself in a strange room, Belle turned toward the door, only to stop. It wasn’t a child she heard, but a woman sobbing as if her heart were broken.

  Wondering how any of her servants could be so distressed after such a pleasant evening, she turned back into her room and froze, her heart in her throat. Misty white fingers of air swirled and drifted before the open window. Rooted to the spot, Belle watched them coalesce into a woman's form.

  The sound of sobbing grew louder. A face appeared upon the apparition's shoulders. Just as the squire's black mask had concealed all but his eyes, all of the ghostly woman's face was revealed except her eyes, which were naught but black spaces.

  Belle’s heart banged in her chest. She wanted to run, but not a single muscle moved. A scream filled her throat but her jaws were locked tight. All that escaped was a tiny, panicked squeal.

  As if it heard her the spirit’s head turned, scanning the room with its sightless eyes. Their gazes met, or would have met if those sockets hadn’t been empty. Mouth agape, Belle stared into those bottomless, blackened holes.

  God save her, but this couldn’t be happening!

  Paralysis shattered. Belle whirled. It was like running in a dream, her arms and legs moving as if through mud. It took an eternity to reach the door. Her fingers clawed at the wood as she sought the latch. At last it opened.

  Gulping in air, she shot out of her bedchamber and across the sitting room. The outer door gave way with a quiet shriek. It was more sound than Belle could make. Gasping and shivering, she leapt out into the safety of the gallery.

  A door opened and closed. A chill gust of air followed, moving through Jamie's office with enough force to make the flames of his candles jig. He leaned back in his chair and stretched, watching the wild dance of shadows on the stone wall across from him. God be praised, Cecily had finally arrived.

  His absence from Graceton had dimmed his memory of how miserable this chamber could be. The tower had its origins in a more violent time when windows were never more than narrow slits. In the deepest of winter Jamie cursed those tiny openings for being without glass while for these few humid weeks of August he cursed them for not being big enough to admit even a hint of the river's fresh breath.

  More than ready to be done with his day, he came to his feet and straightened the papers on his desk. Most of his evening had been consumed in listing all the families to whom announcements of Nick's wedding would be sent. Although Nick was a recluse and his title in abeyance, the Holliers were not an insignificant family. Even if none of the notified would attend the ceremony, the gifts they’d send would both celebrate the event and renew their connection to Nick and his name.

  As Jamie set the list aside his gaze shifted to that idiotic note about the cannon. It taunted him for the fool he was. He laid the sheaf of papers in his hand atop it. He should have just admitted he thought Lady Purfoy innocent and been done with it. Instead, all his frenzy to escape his own emotions had done was pique Nick’s interest where Jamie didn’t want it to be.

  He reached for his doublet. Because this was home and there was no need for formality he’d shed that garment directly after the meal, leaving it hanging over the back of his chair. Rather than grab it, he paused, listening.

  It was a trick of the spiraling stairway that intensified the sounds made within it. If Cecily were climbing the steps, he should have heard every footfall, every scrape of hardened leather on stone. Not a sound emanated from the stairwell outside his office's open door.

  He strode out onto the landing. Nothing disturbed the silence. If not Cecily, then who?

  Suspicion prickled up his spine. He looked to the gallery door. Surely, Sir Edward wouldn’t be so bold as to be prying on this, his first evening in the house.

  Crossing the landing, Jamie gently cracked the door. There was no illumination in the gallery save for the moonlight streaming in through its windows. At the nearest oriel stood a shadowy woman dressed in white, her head bent as if in prayer.

  Born out of Mistress Miller's tale this morn, the possibility that he was at last seeing the castle’s ghost flickered through Jamie. He rolled his eyes at such a thought. He was more exhausted than he thought if he was paying heed to her nonsense. More likely this was one of the newcomers suffering from sleeplessness. Since the last thing he needed was for any of Lady Purfoy’s party to see Cecily on her way to Nick’s chamber, whoever it was would have to be shooed back to bed and right quickly.

  Throwing open the door, he stepped out into the gallery. The woman whirled toward him with what sounded like a frightened gasp. Light from his office streamed past him to catch her in its muted glow. It found pale gold in the curling waves of hair that fell to her hips.

  Lady Purfoy.

  Jamie caught his breath. The lady wore no bed robe atop her nightshirt. There was light enough to show him how that garment's thin fabric clung to her full breasts.

  “Oh,” Nick’s wife whispered in recognition.

  Her single word brought Jamie's gaze back to her face, which by all rights it should never have left. Lady Purfoy's brow was creased, her eyes wide. Before he had a chance to ask her what she was doing in the gallery in the middle of the night, she launched herself at him. His breath huffed out as he caught her against his chest. Hands on her hips, he staggered back a step, strugglin
g to hold them both upright.

  She latched her arms around his neck and buried her face into his shoulder. The scent of her soap and roses filled his every breath. Her hair felt like silk where it tumbled over his hands and forearms. God help him, but all that lay between his flesh and hers was the fabric of their shirts. Her glorious breasts were pressed against his chest and the sensation was marvelous.

  He swallowed. Even as his conscience warned that he mustn’t, his arms pressed her closer still. Her breasts flattened against his chest until he could feel their every detail on his skin. His eyes closed.

  She shuddered against him. The movement was both heaven and hell rolled into one. Desire exploded to life, too huge to be denied.

  His head bent. His lips touched the curve of her neck. Her skin was soft and sweet under his mouth. He traced a line of kisses down the length of her throat then splayed a hand over the gentle roundness of her hip. With a careful nudge, he shifted her until her womanhood rested against his shaft.

  As she felt the strength of his desire for her, she gave a quiet gasp. Her head lifted from his shoulder, her hands loosened at his nape. She began to straighten, her arms lowering as if to push him away.

  Jamie frowned. Nay, he wouldn’t allow it. She was his. Hadn’t he spoken the words that made it so? Closing his arms about her, he caught her lips with his, intent on destroying her resistance.

  The feel of her mouth beneath his was better than he'd imagined. Taunting himself, he plied her lips with tiny kisses, each press of flesh to flesh sending an exquisite wave of need rolling over him. Her arms relaxed. Sighing against his mouth, her hands slid up to once more clasp behind his nape. As she yielded to him his ache to own all of her grew until he was filled with it.