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

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

  If she went to his room she knew he would admit her. Perhaps, unlike John Harpur, he would not dismiss her as soon as he had sated himself, but they could lie together until morning. For that she would risk what remained of her reputation, but to give him such power over her without assurance of anything in return would be foolhardy. Instead she faced the wall and when she did sleep it was restlessly with half-remembered dreams of passionate words she had never heard, nor ever hoped to hear.

  * * *

  Roger was already waiting when Lucy came downstairs the next morning. He was wearing his leather jerkin and had thrown his cloak across his shoulders.

  ‘Are you ready, dove?’

  Lucy bound Robbie to her chest, winding him in a long cloth. She pulled her grey cloak around them both.

  ‘Why do you call me dove?’ she asked as they set out on the long climb towards Mattonfield, taking turns to pull Lucy’s small cart containing the ale barrel.

  ‘You remind me of one. Small, mild and grey.’ Roger looked her up and down. ‘You should wear colours.’

  She twisted the end of the deep green ribbon she wore in her braid, the one concession to colour she allowed herself. ‘Some in town would doubtless have me parade my shame in a yellow hood.’

  ‘Why do you care what they think?’

  Lucy stared at the ground. She redoubled her efforts, yanking at the cart handle. Roger caught her by the elbow. Lucy slowed once more and he fell in beside her. She kept her eyes fixed ahead and arms rigidly by her side. He prised her fingers from the handle and took over pulling.

  Lucy gave him a sidelong glance. He was wearing the serious expression that was in contrast to the vigour she knew possessed him most of the time, but his eyes burned.

  ‘Why do you care?’ he repeated.

  ‘However much I hate it, I have to live here. If I thought I could kick my heels up and bid them all farewell I would.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’ Roger asked. He dropped the handle and took Lucy by the hand. He swept the other wide, taking in the whole of the vale before them.

  Lucy’s heart tugged. She’d dreamed of such a thing, but to be asked so blatantly made escape seem beyond impossible. She freed her hand from Roger’s and turned in a slow circle, drinking in the sight of the plain that spread out in one direction until the horizon blurred in the mist.

  ‘I tried that once. I took myself to the hiring fair against my father’s wishes. Not in Mattonfield, but the other direction to Bukestone.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She stroked Robbie’s hand, astonished he had to ask. She turned to gaze at the hills over which Roger had come and her expression darkened.

  ‘I got with child and had to return.’

  ‘Ah. I should have realised.’ He sounded contrite.

  ‘How could you understand what it meant? You never had to live with the scandal, even if Kitty’s child was yours. You were untouched.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have been.’ Roger spoke quietly. ‘The man who left you should have been shamed, just as I should have been.’

  Lucy stared at him in surprise at the admission of culpability. She gave a deep sigh. ‘But he wasn’t and you weren’t, but Kitty and I were.’

  She stalked ahead, not stopping until they reached the brow of the hill. Mattonfield lay before her and with it Risby and whatever awaited her. She’d never wanted to run from Cheshire more than she did at that moment.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lucy was withdrawn the rest of the way to the town. His suggestion that she leave Mattonfield and the people she so clearly disliked should not have provoked such a response. Perhaps it was tiredness, or maybe the burden of carrying Robbie who drowsed against his mother’s chest. She wore the pinched expression he had not seen on her face for days and which upset him to see.

  Every attempt to make conversation was met with distracted answers aside from one exchange. Roger was musing aloud on the possibility of recruiting men to join the Northern Company when Lucy whipped her head round to glare at him.

  ‘You make money by persuading men to be killed?’

  ‘I make no money from recruiting them and no one has to join, but for men with no prospects it’s a way to make their fortune with a share of the spoils,’ Roger pointed out. Something about men of the north made his brain itch. He shook his head, dismissing it. ‘When Thomas and I left France we each had a share of the prize from the last campaign. Not much, but an encouraging amount.’ He kicked at a stone in the path. ‘It’s a shame mine was on the horse when Thomas took it. It gives me hope that if I went back there would be more to win.’

  ‘You’d go back?’ Lucy’s voice was low. ‘How much does a man need?’

  ‘Enough to hold his head high,’ Roger said. ‘I don’t intend to return to my father’s house empty-handed.’

  Lucy was tight-lipped.

  ‘Would you refuse riches if they came your way?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she answered. ‘But I wouldn’t kill to get them, or send others to be killed.’

  ‘No, you just flirt with men you dislike,’ he retorted.

  Lucy drew a sharp breath, turning red. ‘Men have their way, women have ours. I doubt either sex would understand or condone the methods of the other.’

  Once again she stalked ahead, dragging her cart. Roger stared after her thoughtfully. Her meaning was clear. Women made their wealth through marriage. Some men succeeded in increasing theirs in the same way. Many women had tried to catch Roger over the years and he in turn had aimed high and fallen short of winning Jane de Monsort.

  With a baseborn child, how was Lucy ever to catch a husband? No wonder she continually wore an expression of worry and talk of money made her so agitated. He vowed to repay her everything he owed, if not today then at some point in the future when he had received his reward from King Edward.

  They walked in silence until they reached the outskirts of the town, where Lucy handed Robbie to an older woman almost as broad as she was tall who smothered him with kisses and glared suspiciously at Roger, who lingered with the cart.

  ‘Bring him to the games if you can,’ Lucy cajoled. ‘Our friend here will be competing.’

  ‘You didn’t pretend our relationship,’ Roger pointed out as they walked away.

  ‘No need. Widow Barton knows who Robbie’s father is.’

  Mattonfield was small but bustling and on the top of a hill. A road wound upward to the market square faced on one side by a church and open on the other to the hills where they had come from. Roger would once have scorned the town as too small for his notice, but after days of seclusion it filled him with excitement.

  He followed Lucy around as she completed her errands: a new length of linen for Robbie’s shift, a small pot of linseed to patch holes in the window strips, the smallest bowl on sale to replace one that was cracked. Each purchase saw the leather pouch at her waist grow emptier and her expression more bleak. She was met everywhere with coolness that made Roger seethe, but she kept her head high and affected a manner of unconcern. Finally she stopped.

  ‘I’m finished. I’m going to set up on the corner one street over and see what I can sell.’

  ‘You aren’t coming to watch?’ Roger asked. He failed to keep the disappointment from his voice, but he had been looking forward to demonstrating his skill to Lucy. She looked as disappointed as he felt.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t pass up this opportunity.’

  Roger nodded in understanding, thinking back to Lucy’s purchases. Everything had been essential and the minimum she could buy. She had bought nothing for herself, though her eyes had lingered on the honey-glazed pastries and lengths of braid. He helped her drag the cart to the street.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said gravely.

  ‘You also.’

  She
smiled and reached out a hand to straighten his collar. Her fingers brushing against his neck drove him wild. Roger made his way to the square where the games were taking place, skin still feeling warm where Lucy had touched him. Farm lads and apprentices dressed in thickly padded jerkins and ill-fitting helmets swiped at each other with wooden swords. Others entered the quintain, running at targets on spinning arms or tilting at rings suspended by ropes. The melee had never held attraction for him, but tilting made his blood race with excitement.

  Roger walked towards the grandly dressed guildsman in charge of proceedings. He gave his name, not bothering to think of a pseudonym. If he was being trailed, his prowess in the games would draw enough attention to himself.

  With a swagger Roger walked into the square and took the lance from the squire, enjoying the mutter of interest that rippled round the square. This should be easy. With his eye on the target all he had to do was hit the centre and dodge the weight as it came round behind. He had done it a hundred times on foot and on horseback.

  He pulled the lance to his chest, tucking it beneath his arm for balance. A throb of pain shot through his shoulder and he grunted aloud as the lance dropped a touch. He gritted his teeth and pulled it tighter to his body, lifting it back into position. He faced the course and broke into a run.

  By the time he reached the wooden target the dull throb had become a brand of fire coursing through his upper body. The tip wavered as he ran. By the end of the course, sweat was pooling in his lower back and beneath his arms. The impact of the lance on the wooden target sent a pain through his shoulder almost as great as the arrow itself. The tip glanced off the outer edge. Stunned, Roger did not move quick enough. The weighted bag swung round, catching him in the back and knocking the remaining breath from him.

  Roger shoved the lance towards the waiting boy. He wouldn’t have been able to hold it much longer in any case. His hand trembled as he stared at it in disbelief. One or two laughs broke out around the square. Roger swept his head from side to side, hoping to find the culprit, but there were too many people pushing close. He knew what they would see: not a knight in polished armour with a retinue to serve him, but a man standing alone in a mended cloak and ill-fitting shirt. He was nobody to them. The flames that had lapped his arm and shoulder spread to his face. Roger lowered his head and stormed from the square. Halfway across he heard his name being called. He spun on his heel to see Lucy dodging through the crowd towards him.

  ‘I saw what happened. What went wrong?’

  ‘What do you think? I wasn’t strong enough. I failed!’ Roger snarled. Knowing Lucy had witnessed his shameful failure was too much to bear. ‘I thought you wouldn’t be here!’

  She recoiled, her face twisting in dismay at his outburst. The sight was a slap to his face, making his innards writhe with shame. Once before, Roger’s angry words after defeat had pushed Joanna away from him and into the arms of his brother. He could not drive Lucy away now by making the same mistake.

  ‘You didn’t deserve that. It isn’t you I’m angry with,’ he said, summoning all his self-control to master his disappointment. ‘Come with me now.’

  She stood with hands on hips, glaring. ‘What do you want of me, Roger?’

  His gentleness transformed her shock to anger. He held his hands out. When she did not take them he reached out and unwrapped her hands from her waist. He slid his hands up her arms and tugged her gently towards him. She came reluctantly, but came nevertheless until she was standing before him.

  ‘Your company,’ he said. ‘I need a drink and I don’t want to be alone.’

  Her chin came up and she scowled. Roger gave her a smile. ‘I want to drink with you.’

  Lucy’s face softened. She glanced over her shoulder to the street where she had planned to sell her ale. ‘We may as well drink some of mine as neither of us have any money.’

  Roger followed her. The cart was pushed against a wall and the barrel was almost empty.

  ‘There was more than this before!’ Lucy cried. ‘I was only gone a short time.’

  ‘A pair of villains helped themselves,’ called an old man who sat on a low wall tending a dozen brown geese. Lucy covered her face with her hands, her shoulders sagging. Roger reached a hand to her shoulder, but she pulled away with a sob that tore at his heart. He sat on the edge of the cart, waiting patiently for her to gather her feelings.

  When she faced him her eyes were too bright in a face that was pale. She filled two cups of ale and passed one to Roger. He noticed despite his own turmoil that her hand was shaking. Losing her ale had hit her hard.

  ‘You can make fresh,’ he said, hoping to comfort her a little. Her smile was sad and slight.

  ‘I know. But not for today.’

  ‘Today was important to me, too.’ Roger sighed. ‘The first chance I had to prove I could still hold a lance.’

  He drained his cup. Lucy refilled it. ‘You’re probably not going back to France. Why do you need to fight?’

  ‘This isn’t about fighting, but if I can’t hold a lance at the tilt my career is ended just as surely as if I was unable to wield it on the battlefield. If I can’t hold a lance I can’t joust and if I can’t do that—’

  He broke off as the enormity of it consumed him. He stared at the ground, examining the dirt between his feet so he felt rather than saw Lucy sit beside him, the wakening of every sense in his body alerting him to her nearness. The cart was short so she had to squeeze close and her arm brushed against Roger’s. It sent prickles of excitement racing up and down his arm and for the second time that day his hand trembled, though for an entirely different reason now.

  ‘If I can’t joust I don’t know what I will do. It’s all I ever wanted. The only life I’ve known. From the age of seven when I was sent to train as a squire I watched my master ride and vowed that one day I would be the best in Yorkshire. The best in England.’

  ‘Which you were,’ Lucy said warmly. ‘You can be again.’

  She meant it kindly, but Roger was caught in the exaggeration he had spun her. He leaned back against the wall and turned his face to the sun. He closed his eyes to block out the glare and found himself in the past, young and fresh, ambitious and determined to make his name. Momentarily he grieved for the boy of seventeen who never became the man he hoped to.

  ‘I was never that good. I practised and rode enough to convince myself I was making the effort, but never enough to make the effort worthwhile. I enjoyed the glory and the thrill of competing, and the attention that taking part brought me, but I lacked the resilience to see it through when things didn’t go my way.’

  He shook his head. ‘I wanted a simple life—glory and riches at the tilt, good wine and merry women to share my bed. I thought the war would be exciting, that it would be like the tournaments, but I’ve seen men and horses drowning in their own blood, towns burned and women screaming for mercy. I don’t think I can ever be simple again.’

  ‘Do you know what I think?’

  Roger looked at Lucy eagerly.

  ‘You need to stop being so self-pitying.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘You have freedoms that are denied so many people, but you sit here wallowing in misery! All you have to do is decide what you want and do it!’

  Her words came like a slap to the face.

  ‘You have no idea what you’re saying!’ he growled.

  ‘You have your life and your wealth and your name.’ Lucy stared into the distance. Roger realised she was facing the direction of the inn. ‘You have a home to return to and people who love you.’

  ‘Love? Perhaps. I’m my father’s younger son, but I am his heir nonetheless. Can you explain that puzzle?’

  Lucy furrowed her brow.

  ‘My father sired a child on his mistress only months before I was conceived. He brought the boy—Hal—into our house and raised him alongside
me. He preferred his bastard to me and made no secret of the fact.’

  Years of resentment boiled to the surface, souring Roger’s stomach.

  ‘Hal was my idol growing up as only an older brother can be. He was destined to be my squire, but he wanted no part of the life that was marked out for us both. It doesn’t matter that I carried on down the path assigned to me. However much I tried to earn my father’s approval I fell short.’

  Lucy’s face showed nothing.

  ‘I last saw my father two weeks before I left England,’ Roger continued. ‘I’d had a series of failures at tournaments around England in the summer of fifty-eight. Hal and I had quarrelled—my doing entirely, though I was innocent of the greater wrongs he believed I had committed. I went to the tournament in York and returned to Wharram without the bride my father was expecting me to bring. Her father decided I was not a worthy suitor after I failed to win any significant prize. My father was disappointed, though tried to hide it. So I swapped the gaiety of the pageants for the battlefield. Becoming a mercenary was a step lower still. I’m not sure what will redeem me in my family’s eyes for the harm I’ve caused and the lives I might have ruined. How can I return even more of a failure?’

  Lucy raised her face, which looked as sorrowful as Roger felt. ‘My father was furious when I left for the hiring fair. He was even more so when I returned home in disgrace. He never tried to hide it. I think if he was not already ailing he would have cast me out to starve as the priest told him to.’ Her lip trembled. ‘Every time he looked at me in the months before he died I could see in his eyes that I had disappointed him. I had to weather that every day, but I did it.’

  Roger bunched his fists. ‘I escaped that humiliation at least. My father is blind. His eyes revealed nothing to me.’

  His jaw clenched and he had to force his admission out.

  ‘It was my doing. Just one in a long line of ways I disgraced myself in my family’s eyes.’