Winning the Mail-order Bride & Pursued for the Viscount's Vengeance & Redeeming the Rogue Knight (9781488021725)

by Robinson, Lauri; Mallory, Sarah; Hobbes, Elisabeth

  Roger swore. Lucy paled, but he ignored it, giving full vent to the frustrations he felt as he let out a stream of obscenity aimed at Thomas and the world in general. He looked around him at the low-roofed room that was shabbier than he had realised at first. Beyond it was the wood and beyond that nothing worth regarding. Even his father’s home on the barren moors of Yorkshire was not this isolated. Being stranded in a town, or even a village, would have been a trial when he had so many tasks to accomplish, but here it was intolerable.

  He swung round and thumped his fist on the door, relishing the rattling sound it made. The impact made his fist smart, but he ignored it, the pain at least being some sort of sensation. His muscles, long unused by his enforced bed rest, began to sing beneath his skin as blood flowed through his veins. This was not the exercise he wanted, but to be moving freely felt wonderful. He ignored the light-headedness that lingered and flung his arms out.

  ‘Stop that now!’ Lucy’s command cut through his rage.

  ‘Don’t order me around, woman,’ Roger growled.

  ‘In my house I’ll order you as I please!’ she yelled back. ‘And if you don’t like it you can leave.’

  Her retort brought him up short. No woman had ever spoken to him in such a way. Few men, either, of rank so far beneath his own. Roger faced her. Her hands were now on her hips, her sharp face as thunderous as the rage that churned inside Roger. There were not more than two paces between them and Lucy was shorter by a head. To look up at him caused her head to tilt back, displaying her slender throat and delicate jaw that practically begged to be kissed. Her eyes glinted with unspoken warning. Beneath his temper Roger felt a flicker of excitement. He narrowed his eyes, but instead of looking away as he would expect a modest woman to do, Lucy narrowed her own.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing behaving in such a way?’ Lucy asked.

  Roger drew a deep breath through his teeth. He forced calmness into his voice that he did not feel. His outburst had been satisfying in the same way a bout of swordplay—or lovemaking—was, in that it had relieved some of the agitation he felt, but ultimately solved nothing.

  ‘I’m expressing the frustration I feel at finding myself abandoned in the middle of nowhere with little more than the breeches I’m standing in. Does it surprise you that I’m less than delighted at the discovery? I have nothing! I have no means of knowing how long I am trapped here. I have places I need to be and errands I must complete. What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘You aren’t trapped here. Not since you freed yourself,’ Lucy growled. ‘You can leave any time you like. Thunder all you want, but do it somewhere else. Mattonfield is four miles away. Go throw yourself on the hospitality of Lord de Legh. He’ll doubtless take in a man of your standing.’

  ‘Then that’s what I’ll do!’

  Roger grabbed his boots from where they lay. He fished inside and found his remaining money.

  ‘I apologise I can’t pay you everything I owe, but you see I am left with nothing.’ He held his farthing up and flicked it towards Lucy in the same manner the pedlar had. She made no attempt to catch it, but watched it fall to the floor, her face thunderous. The sight was the final indignity Roger was prepared to suffer. He stormed down the stairs, out of the inn and out of Lucy Carew’s life for good.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Blasted woman!

  Roger stalked towards Mattonfield, somehow finding the energy to seethe at Lucy’s unjust behaviour despite the challenge of the steep incline ahead of him. He was halfway up the hill before he realised he still had the ropes dangling from each wrist. He worked at the knots as he walked, discovering them hard to unpick. Lucy had definitely intended him to remain bound! If he hadn’t freed himself, he wondered just how long she would have kept him tethered to the bed. His confidence that he would have talked her into freeing him with honeyed words diminished the more he remembered her scathing responses.

  When he reached the top of the hill he stopped, doubling over to rest his hands on his knees and drawing a deep breath into his aching lungs. His head swam and as he stood upright his shoulder throbbed and he was assailed by nausea. Every twinge served to mock his failure and emphasise his impotence.

  He glared backwards to where the inn nestled in the valley. As he watched, Lucy’s slight figure appeared and vanished around the back of the building, returning a while afterwards bowed down with a large bucket. She did not even glance towards the hill to see if Roger had managed to find his way or was still within sight. He should have been lying in bed being cosseted, not forced out on foot. He caught his petulant thought and checked himself with a growl. A hard march wasn’t unusual to a man who had travelled to France and he’d recovered from plenty of injuries in less luxurious places than Lucy’s bed. He knew it wasn’t the lack of comfort that rankled, but the lack of tenderness on the part of his hostess.

  While she had believed him unconscious or incapable Lucy had displayed the most caring heart and the change once he awoke still unsettled him. How dare Lucy speak to him in such a manner! The insolent woman had treated him as a child—or worse, an equal rather than a man far superior in rank. No deferential milord from her! Come to think of it, she had never called him anything. She had somehow avoided using his name or title, or referring directly to him in any way. If that was how she treated her guests it was small wonder her inn had so few visitors. And to throw him out when her brother had offered him refuge there was scarcely believable.

  Roger had reached the hilltop where the ground had levelled. The forest he had ridden through to evade his pursuers was to his left. He shuddered at the memory of how close to death he had come that night. He’d suffered falls at the tilt and survived many battles, but he sensed the sheer terror of that night would remain with him long after the scars had healed. He hoped Thomas was safe. The youth was far too green to be carrying out the task they had been assigned alone.

  ‘Where are you, lad?’ he asked aloud. ‘Hurry yourself back here so I can stop fretting.’

  To his right a river wound through low ground around the bottom of a hill where sheep grazed. It must be the same one that passed by Lucy’s inn. Beyond him he could see a cluster of rooftops and the spire of a church nestling into the side of the hill. A handful of homes were spread further out between the inn and the main group of buildings, though none was as remote as Lucy’s inn. Mattonfield was a town barely worth the description.

  Roger found a convenient clump of bushes and rested back against it, burying himself in the undergrowth away from the rough stone path. His shoulder was protesting and his belly was empty. He should at least have demanded something to eat before leaving. A short sleep would see him right.

  He closed his eyes and planned what he would say to Lord de Legh when he arrived at his door. The man was not one the King had instructed him to visit and the name was unfamiliar to Roger. He hoped his own connections would be sufficient to gain admittance to the household. His name had made scarce difference to Robin de Monsort when he had changed his mind about granting permission for Roger to marry his daughter five years ago.

  His hand felt for the folded letter in his scrip, though he knew the humiliating words off by heart. He noticed absentmindedly that dwelling on that particular cut felt less raw now. Jane de Monsort’s plump, soft face was becoming indistinct in his memory. He closed his eyes, trying to bring her to mind, but the only woman who filled his vision had angular cheekbones beneath angry grey eyes that were filled with contempt for him.

  ‘Begone, you bad-tempered dove. I’m done with you,’ he muttered.

  Lucy Carew was doubtless as glad to be rid of Roger as he was of her. At least, he thought he was glad to be out of her company, but the further from the inn he walked, the less sure he was that leaving had been the right decision. Even as they had argued he had felt a thrill whisper through his veins as his blood speeded up. The sure
hands that had ministered to him would have been enough of a draw by themselves to convince him she was worth bedding, but usually he would have scorned a woman who behaved in such an immodest manner.

  With Lucy he found himself increasingly drawn towards her. His instinct recognised a kindred spirit, a temper as quick as his own. He found himself wondering how alike they were in other passions and felt a strong urge to discover the answer. What a pity he never would. He envied whichever mysterious man had had the pleasure of fathering her child on her.

  The sound of hooves galloping closer roused him from what had been a deeper doze than he had realised. The creak of a cartwheel and off-tune whistling disturbed him further. Because he was lying off the path he was unnoticed when the two travellers met almost directly in front of him and began to speak.

  ‘Good day, master. Have you travelled far today?’

  Roger opened one eye out of curiosity. The accent was northern. The voice might have been familiar and Roger dug into his memory to locate the owner, but found no one. He craned his head, but from his position could see only the legs of the horse. There was a pause before the driver of the cart answered suspiciously.

  ‘Mebbe. Not so far as you, I’ll warr’nt.’

  ‘No, for certain. I am seeking my companions who I became separated from a few days past.’ The voice was charming and exuded innocence. The soldier in Roger warned him to remain silent. He burrowed a little further into his nest.

  ‘Is that the only town nearby?’ the first voice asked. ‘My friends—one or both—may have gone there. I am concerned that one might be injured. Have you seen such a man? Who is the lord of this manor?’

  Roger shuddered. It sounded like the man was looking for Roger or perhaps the assailant who he had slashed at in the forest.

  ‘That’s a lot of questions,’ the driver answered, more guarded now. ‘Some might pay well for answers.’

  Roger grinned at the man’s boldness. He, too, was keen to find the answers and if someone else would pay that was even better. The horse was motioned closer to the cart and money presumably changed hands because the cart driver coughed and directed the rider to Mattonfield, adding further directions to the home of Lord de Legh.

  ‘I’ve seen no injured stranger,’ the cart driver added.

  ‘I may return, so please keep in mind what I have asked,’ the rider said. ‘If there is talk of strangers in these parts, I want to hear of it.’

  Roger let go his breath, though his heart was racing. If he had a sword he might have jumped from his hiding place and demanded answers of his own from the questioner, though remembering the way his arm had shaken holding the poker, he feared he would not be able to wield it effectively enough. In any case the rider dug his boots into the horse’s flanks and galloped towards the town.

  ‘You’ll have to pay more than that,’ the cart driver laughed to himself once the man was out of earshot. ‘Now, sweetness, let’s find out if you’ve got what I want.’

  With that strange endearment to his ox, the cart moved away, too, heading down the road towards the inn. Roger waited until both men were safely away before sitting up. He scratched his beard thoughtfully, feeling both heartened and disturbed by what he had overheard. The rider might have been entirely unconnected to Roger’s business, but deep in his bones Roger felt sure he was involved and this told him a number of things.

  He knew Thomas had not yet been apprehended.

  The seeker had not known the area so their pursuers likely had not been sent by Lord Harpur.

  Which meant they had another purpose in hunting Roger. He could think of several men who would be glad to be rid of him, but no one who would go to so much trouble. The stranger could be intent on preventing Roger delivering his message from the King, but the accent was English so it seemed unlikely. The Northern Company, then?

  Perhaps, though Roger wasn’t aware he had earned anyone’s ire.

  Whatever the case, he was still in danger and seeking hospitality with Lord de Legh might prove difficult or unwise. Getting there would be at the limit of his endurance, too. He sat motionless, knees drawn up to his chest as he ran down all the possible paths he could take. Each time he arrived at the same location. The only place he was sure to be safe was at Lucy’s inn.

  He groaned. After the way he had departed, Lucy would doubtless be unhappy to see him return. Other than the possibility of getting her to agree to a quick tumble with him, he did not relish the idea of spending more time in her company, bad-tempered as she was. Nevertheless, that was what he intended to do. The sleep had done him good and he felt much better than he’d expected for it, not that he needed to reveal that to Lucy. He pulled himself to his feet and brushed himself down before beginning the walk back the way he had come on lighter feet.

  Halfway back he encountered the cart returning. The burly driver was whistling the same approximation of a tune as when he had stopped the first time. Roger eyed him with interest as he approached. The man wore a wine-coloured tunic to his knees. It bore streaks of white dust that could be flour. The miller or baker, perhaps. He stared back at Roger, whose scalp prickled as he remembered the stranger’s promise to return for further information. If a stranger was being hunted, Roger’s best chance of self-preservation was to be anything but that.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ He beamed at the driver. ‘A fine afternoon for a walk, though I’d rather be on your cart than on foot.’

  Both men looked at the sky where dark clouds were gathering and heading towards them.

  ‘Still,’ Roger continued, as if he had been asked, ‘I’ll be glad of a drink when I get to the inn down the road. Best in Cheshire.’

  ‘Old Carew’s place?’ the driver grunted. ‘His daughter runs it now.’

  ‘When a man has been abroad for a while, any English beer is welcome and Mistress Carew brews fine ale.’

  The driver looked interested in Roger for the first time. He pulled a hand through straggly, greasy hair. ‘Know her, do you? You’ll find her at home if you make haste.’

  If the man had completed his errand and was returning home it was likely he had been visiting Lucy. A miller would deliver grain to the brewer, naturally. Roger hoped the subject of her recent guest had not come up. ‘Oh, yes. We’re fine friends, Mistress Carew and I. There’s no hurry to get there.’

  The driver cackled. ‘Friends, are you? Well, I’ll agree she’s a friendly hostess indeed.’

  He picked up his reins, making it obvious the conversation was at an end. Roger wished he had a hat to tip, but settled for a nod and carried on. He would hardly have described Lucy as friendly, but perhaps when her customers did not arrive in the middle of the night bloodstained and demanding she undress them, she was more welcoming. Remembering the way she had cared for him, he could not help believe there was the capacity for kindness within her. He would have to play a careful game, but if luck was on his side Lucy might greet Roger with more warmth than when they had parted.

  * * *

  Lucy hummed as she scrubbed the table on the ground floor, lighter-hearted than she had been for days. Sir Roger’s departure had felt like a stone lifting from her chest. There would be no more fears of strangers arriving to question her with threats of violence, no more need to wait hand and foot on an irritable patient, and no more beckoning glints in the knight’s eyes that threatened to awaken emotions she had long since buried.

  Robbie laughed and sang along to her tune, making up nonsense words to accompany her. Lucy dropped her brush into the bucket and picked him up to swirl around in a wide circle. He squealed with delight, but squirmed in her arms when she tried to clutch him in a tight embrace. Already he was independent enough not to tolerate being treated like a baby. She held him a moment longer, needing to treasure him as he was now, before letting him down. He gathered his wooden animals and ran outside without a backward g
lance.

  Seeing her son content was worth the whispers and sneers she had endured when she had returned in shame, refusing to name the father. She congratulated herself for not succumbing to seduction by another nobleman who would undoubtedly treat her in the manner John Harpur had.

  When someone hammered on her door, her first thought was that Sir Roger had returned. Annoyed at the direction in which her mind had leapt and set her heart racing, she threw the brush back into the pail. He would be miles away by now. She opened the door and found Samuel Risby, the miller.

  ‘Good tidings, Mistress Carew.’ His eyes openly fixed on her breasts in a manner that made Lucy’s toes curl in repulsion. He always managed to make her name sound squalid.

  ‘I’ve brought your malt. Pour me a mug of ale and I’ll unload it.’

  He swaggered to his cart and heaved a sack over his shoulder. ‘Into the brewing shed?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Lucy answered. She speeded inside and filled a mug, intending to take it to the cart, but Risby met her on the doorstep. He eased his hefty frame on to the bench, spreading his legs wide, and accepted the mug.

  ‘It looks like you’re about ready for this sack judging from the other,’ he said. ‘Have you been brewing double?’

  ‘I’ve had to,’ Lucy replied, thinking of the cobweb-strewn brew. ‘I lost a batch.’

  ‘So you’ll be able to pay me for this sack as well as the last? And the one before that?’

  Risby named a price that made Lucy draw an angry breath.

  ‘That’s more than before.’

  ‘Prices have risen. If you don’t like it, find someone else to supply you, or malt your own barley. Either way you still owe me for three sacks.’

  Her debt to Risby had grown without her realising. Lucy thought of the farthing Sir Roger had given her. That had not covered the ale he had drunk or the food he had eaten by a long way. Even considering the pedlars, she had barely earned anything.