by Tamara Leigh
“Is his name Rudd Walther?” Collier asked as he strode forward.
Antony scrambled to retrieve his tunic from the ground and dragged it on before turning. But Collier didn’t need to see the boy’s chest to know it was as abused as his back. Not surprisingly, his face had fared better, sporting only a few scratches and a bruise over the left eye.
“What do you want?” Antony demanded.
“Tell me who did it.”
He wiped a forearm across his damp brow. “I know not what you speak of.”
Collier halted three feet from him. “Who dragged you behind a horse? Rudd Walther?”
“Never heard of the man. As for being dragged…” Antony nodded at the stall behind. “As you know, my mount is skittish.”
The horse within was the same that had fled yesterday when the rebels came out of the wood, but skittish or not, it wasn’t entirely responsible for Antony’s injuries.
“Perhaps you require a more tame mount,” Collier suggested. “An old mare.”
The boy’s indifferent shrug surprised. “If it pleases you, my lord.”
Whoever had beat sense into him before dawn, it was of the wrong sort, firmly reestablishing Antony’s loyalties.
“It does please me, young Antony.” Silently cursing this losing battle, Collier turned and felt the boy’s gaze bore through him all the way to the stable door.
Outside, the bailey stirred to life. The smithy set his fire, the carpenter threw open the shutters of his shop, and the lad who tended the chickens tossed grain. But all blurred against the need to speak with Catherine.
“He rests well,” Lavinia murmured, and looked up from where she perched on the edge of the bed.
Aching over the shadows beneath her mother’s eyes, Catherine said, “Go to my chamber and lie down. I will sit with Father.”
“Nay, this is all the time I have left with him.”
She had said the same earlier this morn when Catherine had tried to relieve her. A useless argument then. A useless argument now. “Very well, but I shall stay with you.”
“’Tis not necessary. When he awakens, I will send word.”
Catherine hesitated, then respecting her mother’s wish to be alone with her husband, crossed to the door.
“Are you unwell, Daughter?”
She looked over her shoulder. “I am but tired.”
“Could it be…” Lavinia’s downturned mouth eased. “Might you be with child?”
Catherine’s menses having come and gone since the one night Collier and she had been intimate, she said, “I am not.”
Sorrow returned to her mother’s mouth, and Catherine realized Lavinia would have been pleased to learn she was to be a grandmother—regardless of the possibility the child would be born with the sight.
Catherine stepped from the solar and quietly closed the door. As she traversed the corridor, footsteps on the stairs warned of another’s approach, and a moment later Collier appeared atop the landing.
Averting her gaze, she started past him.
“Antony is returned.”
She halted. “But he—” She snapped her mouth closed.
“I know. It appears the rebels have sent him back to keep a watch on Irondale.”
Then Collier had discovered her brother was missing only to find him returned. “I see.”
He touched her arm. “Last night, you were trying to stop him from leaving, weren’t you?”
She widened her eyes. “So now you would listen to my lies?”
“I’m sorry, Catherine.”
She shrugged. “Do not feel too badly, for I will likely betray you just the same. I am, after all, a Lancastrian.”
Collier hated her scorn, but being responsible for sowing that ugly weed, he could not begrudge her. “I know I hurt you, and I deserve your anger—”
“Now I am the one who does not wish to hear it.” She stepped past, halted, and asked, “You will send Antony away?”
“I haven’t decided.”
When she looked around, she wore a bitter smile. “Beware, Collier Gilchrist. If you take as long to decide my brother’s future as you have ours, you will lose Irondale.”
Meaning he had lost her? If not, he had certainly lost much of the ground gained with her these past weeks.
Long after she went from sight, he stared at where she had been, one side of him urging him to return to the twenty-first century, the other reminding him of what he had lost in allowing Aryn to walk away. And what he would lose if he now walked away from Catherine.
Out of sight of Collier, just out of sight of those in the hall below, Catherine halted and leaned back against the stairway wall. She did not want to regret her anger, but she did. And all the more so for the reason she so strongly felt it.
She pressed a hand between her breasts, and harder still thinking she could squeeze out the ache in her heart that proved she was, indeed, capable of loving. But the emotion would not be moved from that place within.
Dropping her hand to her side, she silently cried over loving a man who not only did not trust her, but did not care enough to stay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
He came without warning.
With a stride so long and brisk few in the hall had time to stand before he was upon them, Edmund Morrow ascended the dais. Eyes pinning Catherine where she had risen, he slammed the ledgers down in front of her, the impact causing the contents of nearby trenchers to slop across the table.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
Though Catherine knew to what he referred, she did not understand why he was uninformed—until she became aware of how tense Collier had grown beside her.
He had not given Strivling’s wealth to Morrow as he had said he would. The implication was alarming. Was he a thief?
“Where?” Morrow growled.
As distant as Collier and she had become since his accusations a sennight past, and as hurt as she remained in spite of his attempts to right the wrong, she could not reveal him. “I know not of what you speak, my lord.”
He leaned across the table and thrust his face near hers. “I speak of the money missing from Strivling’s coffers. Three hundred pounds.”
She blinked. It had been eight hundred, meaning Collier had altered the entries? But then why had he not taken all the money off the books? She stole a glance at him, and his eyes implored her to trust one who did not trust her.
“As I told my husband when he asked the same of me, I am as ignorant of its whereabouts as I am of Strivling having possessed such wealth.”
He looked to his vassal.
“I searched, my lord,” Collier said, “but there was no money to be found.”
Morrow turned back to Catherine. “If not you, who would know of it?”
She could not hold back her next words. “Lord Somerton, whose seat you have taken for your own. Such a shame Montagu had not a care for who fell beneath the fire of his siege.”
Something distant from anger flashed in Morrow’s eyes. Regret for what had happened at Strivling? Or only regret the departed baron could not tell him where the money was hidden?
“If you speak false, Catherine Algernon, and I learn you placed Strivling’s money in Lancastrian hands, your punishment will be dire.”
“Does such money exist, and if Lancastrians possess it, ’twas not given them by me.” Then she added, “And I am now Lady Catherine Gilchrist, my lord.”
He grunted. “So you are.”
Grateful for the easing of his anger, she looked to the surrounding tables. Excepting Antony, whose hatred pulsed from him, those gathered for the meal warily regarded the Yorkist who was now their baron. It was time to play the Lady of Irondale. “You would join us, Baron Morrow?” She indicated the empty high seat.
He frowned. “You were expecting me?”
“Nay, my lord,” Collier said, “but you are welcome at Irondale.”
Though undoubtedly curious as to why Collier had not claimed the seat, he came around th
e table and lowered into it. As Baron of Highchester, it was his due, as was the lord’s solar if he decided to pass the night here. In which case, her father would have to be moved.
Catherine regained her seat and nodded to the serving women who awaited her direction.
Trenchers of food and tankards of ale were brought for Morrow and his men, and though talk resumed, it was strained for the first half hour. When Irondale’s people began to relax in the presence of their new baron, Catherine grudgingly conceded Edmund Morrow was not entirely unpleasant. He did not harass the women servants, smiled occasionally, and listened intently to the answers Collier supplied with regard to the state of the demesne.
When the meal came to a close with Morrow’s rising, Catherine asked, “You will stay the night, my lord?”
“Aye, we depart at dawn.”
“I will see that your chamber is made ready.” She crossed the hall, but before she reached the stairs, Collier intercepted her.
“Do not move your father. Prepare our chamber for Morrow.”
“But he will wish the lord’s solar.”
“I will speak with him about it. We will take Antony and Eustace’s chamber.”
She did not believe Morrow would agree, but she said, “Very well,” and started past him.
“Catherine…” He laid a hand on her arm.
She looked down at his long, tanned fingers. Though she wished she felt naught for him, that simple touch caused all of her to warm.
“Thank you,” he said.
Knowing he referred to her silence about Strivling’s wealth—trusting him again though he did not trust her—she nodded.
“I will explain,” he said. “Wait up for me.”
As she watched him stride opposite, Antony caught her eye where he stood back from the others.
What was he thinking? What mischief would he make this day? And how much would Collier regret not sending him away?
“Why did you not tell me what you had found in the books?” Edmund asked.
Collier looked into the shadowed planes of his ancestor’s face. He had known this was what Edmund wanted to speak to him about when he had asked him to accompany him outside. But there was no need to tell his ancestor that what he believed was missing from Strivling’s coffers far exceeded three hundred pounds. It would only make Edmund more determined to discover its whereabouts.
“As there was no money to be found, it was not uppermost in my mind. Then your return to Strivling was so sudden and our departure equally so that I forgot to mention it.”
Edmund stared.
Did he think Collier had taken the money for himself? Unfortunately, its hiding place could not be revealed.
Finally, Edmund said, “You believe Lady Catherine speaks the truth?”
“I do. There was no opportunity for her to deliver the money to the Lancastrians. Either it was smuggled out during the siege, or it never existed.”
“What of her escape? She could have taken it with her then.”
“She had not gone far when I discovered her missing. I saw her before she saw me, and she carried nothing.”
Edmund heaved a sigh. “I do not know what makes me trust you, Gilchrist, but I do. Pray, do not disappoint me.”
“I am ever loyal, my lord.”
“Loyal is good, but what of your judgment? In eschewing the high seat, you act the commoner you no longer are. For what purpose?”
“Out of deference to my wife’s father. The old man is dying and hasn’t many days left. Thus, I have also allowed him to remain in the solar with his wife.”
“A lord who does not claim the high seat, nor the solar?” Edmund exclaimed. “You have been given a title and charge of a castle and lands, yet you do them no honor.”
And offended Edmund. “It must be the common in me, but I fail to see what harm there is in allowing an old man to die with respect. My dinner will taste no better if I sit in the high seat, nor will my sleep be more restful in the solar.”
Edmund stepped nearer. “If you do not claim what is yours, these people will think you weak and try to take it from you. That is the harm of it.”
At first, Collier blamed Edmund’s rebuke on medieval thinking, but he reminded himself he had been like-minded in his twenty-first century business dealings. He had believed in a show of force, and that there was no place for compassion in business dealings. So what had changed him?
Rather, who? Aryn and Catherine.
“Naught to say, Gilchrist?”
“As you have said yourself, my lord, I do not fit. I see things differently. All I can do is ask that you trust me.”
“And if you disappoint?”
Would he? Though he may have failed with Catherine, he was making progress with Irondale’s people. “I give you my word I will not.”
“Be assured, I will hold you to it,” Edmund said and turned back toward the keep. “Have there been further rebel sightings?”
“None,” Collier said as he walked beside him. Knowing Edmund should be apprised that Lancastrians were in the vicinity, he had sent word of last week’s attack. However, he had not mentioned Antony’s involvement.
“I have heard ’tis Rudd Walther who leads them,” Edmund said, “and he aspires to raise an army.”
“Aspires?”
“Aye. Lacking sufficient funds, he will be unable to gather enough men to do more than harass us.”
Thus, all the greater his concern for Strivling’s missing wealth.
“I am thinking,” Edmund said as they started up the keep’s steps, “I will take Lady Catherine’s brother with me when I return to Strivling.”
Collier halted. “Antony?”
Edmund looked around. “I need another squire.”
“But his loyalties—”
“Lie with King Henry. This I know.”
“Then why him?”
“He is strong and determined, and though young, I can see the warrior in him.”
“But if you cannot trust him, what good is he?”
“Methinks a firm hand will teach him his place and bring him to the side of the Yorkists.”
Should he tell Edmund of Antony’s role in the attack? If his ancestor was going to make him his squire, he ought to know. But then, how would Edmund react if the boy’s Lancastrian activities were revealed? What punishment would he mete out?
“I cannot be certain, my lord,” Collier said, “but I suspect Antony was involved in last week’s attack.”
“I would be surprised were he not.”
What was he not saying? “Yet you still wish him for a squire?”
“I do. If he proves loyal, he will serve me well. If he proves disloyal, he will serve me in another capacity.” Edmund smiled. “He will lead me to the rebels.”
Then Antony would be used as bait.
Edmund’s smile lowered. “’Tis as a squire I wish your wife’s brother. In that I speak true, my friend. But does he betray me, I will turn that betrayal to my advantage.”
And there was nothing Collier could do to stop Antony from going the way his head and heart led him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A quarter hour later, Collier entered the room where Catherine and he would pass the night and found his wife in a chair near the brazier, a fur over her lap.
“Morrow has agreed to take our chamber?” she asked as he lowered into the chair angled toward hers.
“He has.”
Her shoulders eased a degree. “Was he angry to learn my father occupies the solar?”
“He wasn’t pleased.”
She nodded, then with a sad smile said, “I thank you.”
Propping his forearms on his thighs, he clasped his hands between his knees. “He intends to take Antony to Strivling.”
She caught her breath. “Whatever for?”
“He requires another squire.”
“And you offered my brother?”
“Nay, I was as surprised as you when he told me his plans for Antony.”
Her teeth plucked at her lower lip. “Does he know of the attack? That Antony was involved?”
“I told him only that I suspected his hand in it.”
“And still he wishes to take him into his household?”
“He believes he can turn Antony’s loyalties.”
“And if he cannot?”
“Then Antony will serve the greater purpose of leading Morrow to the rebels.”
She momentarily closed her eyes. “I see.”
She also knew her brother was more likely to betray than come over to the Yorkists.
Silence stretched, then she said, “What did you do with Strivling’s wealth?”
Time to take a chance—to trust as she trusted him. “I appreciate that you protected me, but before I answer that, I need to tell you about Aryn.”
She stiffened. “’Tis not necessary.”
“It is. If I’m to make the right decision about us, you need to know who I am, where I come from, and whom I loved before you.”
“Truly, it matters not. I—” Violet eyes flashing, she sat back hard as if struck by an unseen hand.
Collier moved out of the chair and dropped before her. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” She swallowed. “You said I need to know whom you loved…before me.”
Now it was he who reacted as if struck. But the words echoed through him, proof he had spoken them. And in that moment, he knew they were true. Though he had wrestled with his ability to care deeply for this woman, so quietly had love entered—as if fearing it would be cast out—he had not been aware it had moved off the threshold of his emotions.
Did it mean he no longer loved Aryn? That Catherine had replaced her?
He heard again Tilly’s words to him the night of his wedding. Just as you cannot be in two places at one time, neither can your heart be devoted to two women at the same time.
Devoted. He did love Aryn as he had told Catherine he always would, but surely devotion was reserved for one here…now.
Still, wasn’t it too soon to feel this for Catherine? Or had love of Aryn prepared the way for love of Catherine, making it less difficult to acknowledge and express?
