As the Last Petal Falls

by Jessica Woodard

  “And you’d be the lost lady, then?”

  “Yes, I’m Isabelle Wellesley.” Vivienne straightened up from shoveling hearth coals. She knew she had streaks of ash all down her cheeks, but she smiled as though she were dressed in silk and presiding over afternoon tea. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction, sir.”

  “Name’s Tucker. Nathaniel Tucker.”

  “I’m so pleased to meet you, Master Tucker. I hope you don’t find me rude, but I fear I must get back to this fire. I haven’t mastered the trick of lighting them yet.”

  He looked at her askance as she awkwardly crumbled dried moss on the hearth, and then piled twigs on top. Fetching a taper, she lit it cautiously off one of the torches along the wall, and then shuffled back to the fireplace, trying to keep the taper carefully sheltered with her body. Predictably, the small wick blew out as soon as she leaned down to touch it to the kindling.

  “Is she daft, Marcus?” Tucker spoke directly to Marcus Shapherd, as though Vivi weren’t even there. She gritted her teeth and headed back to the torch.

  “Be fair, Nate. It’s only her third fire.”

  “Bah. She’s not even building it properly.”

  “Perhaps you could show me, Master Tucker?” Vivienne was all innocence. “I really could use some instruction. John Marlplot tried to teach me how to make a fire, but I fear I didn’t quite follow his instructions.”

  “Well, no wonder! I mean,” he amended hastily, “he’s a fine lad, and we do our best to do right by him, but...” he petered out, then shouldered her gently aside. “First, you need a sight more kindling than you’ve put here.”

  Vivienne watched Tucker pile a double fistful of moss on the hearth, and then carefully stack the twigs in a small pyramid around it. When he looked back to make sure she was paying attention, she gazed at him guilelessly. “But how do you put on the big sticks—”

  “Logs.”

  “The big logs, without crushing that?”

  “You stack ’em around, like so.” The man busied himself at the hearth. Vivi took a moment to wink outrageously at Marcus, who grinned broadly back, and then they both watched soberly as Nate carefully stacked logs in an open square around the kindling, until he could place the last four across the top. Really, it was a very well built fire. “Now light it, lass.”

  “How do I keep the taper from blowing out in the draft?”

  “I suppose it’s difficult to shield with only one hand. Very well, give me the blasted taper.” He took the wick and, with a practiced ease, lit the pile of moss. It blazed up merrily, lighting the small sticks, and before long the top logs were starting to ignite.

  “What a wonderful fire! “ Vivienne raved. “Thank you so much, Master Tucker.”

  “Think nothing of it, Miss Wellesley.” Tucker was almost blushing. “Happy to lend a hand.” The man made his way out of the kitchen with the supplies he had come for, and Matt Shapherd turned to Vivienne.

  “You know you’ll have to light one yourself eventually.”

  “We’ll see,” she answered smugly. “Now what’s next on the list?”

  “Drawing water to fill the kitchen barrel.”

  “Then let’s go.” She picked up the small wooden bucket used for the task. “I think Alan is in the courtyard right now, and he hates to see me trying to lug the heavy bucket with only one good arm.”

  The laughter of both brothers followed her down the hallway.

  The more men she met around the keep, the more clear it became that these were not soldiers, as she had first assumed. They lacked the discipline that even the most slapdash militia kept, and they had no clear chain of command, aside from the obvious fact that Fain was their leader. An outpost of this kind should have a number of Sergeants, several Lieutenants, and possibly a Captain under the Commanding Officer. It was clear that Connelly ran the infirmary, and the Shapherds ran the kitchen, and a fellow named Eric Tully made up the guard schedules, but none of them held any rank she could discern, or any authority outside their given stations. The men all called each other by name when they weren’t using some profane nickname instead, never by a title or designation. And no matter how obliquely she tried to ask, every man in the keep seemed bent on dodging her questions about what, exactly, they were doing out here.

  If they weren’t soldiers—and every passing day made Vivienne more convinced that they were not—then what was going on?

  Her mind offered her all sorts of unsavory options. They could be thieves, or escaped criminals, or madmen... although really, they didn’t seem much like madmen. Most of them seemed like good, honest fellows. A bit rough around the edges, perhaps, but Vivienne had a hard time accepting that they were hardened criminals. She spent her meals sitting quietly by the hearth, watching the men around her, trying to think her way through this puzzle. It was maddening, to know there was a mystery, and be unable to solve it. Who were these men? And, by extension, who was Fain?

  She was picking at the hard, brown oat bread, trying to find an explanation that suited her, when she felt a large body settle next to her. For a moment her heart beat faster, thinking Fain had finally sought her out. Then an unfamiliar voice spoke, and her spirits plummeted.

  “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Simon Legrey.”

  Vivi lifted her head to meet pale blue eyes, far too close to her own. “I’m Isabelle Wellesley.” She made a sort of curtsy with her upper body, using the movement to slide a bit farther away from him on the bench, but he followed, keeping their hips pressed together.

  “I know who you are, Miss Wellesley; I’d say the whole keep knows.” Vivienne didn’t know how to respond, so she gave a cool nod. “After all, it isn’t as though we get many ladies here.”

  The way Legrey said “ladies” made Vivi think of women for hire, and she drew back in distaste from his overly intimate tone. “I can’t imagine why; after all, most of the men I’ve met seem like perfect gentlemen.” Her expression left no doubt that she was not including Legrey in that estimation, and she expected that to be an end to this interchange. She was shocked, then, to feel his arm creeping around her back.

  “Ah, but then, most of these worthy gentlemen wouldn’t really know what to do with a lady if they had one. I, on the other hand,” he pulled himself close enough to whisper in her ear, “am ready to serve, Miss Wellesley.”

  That was quite enough. Vivi leapt to her feet, vigorously rubbing her ear, as though she could get his insinuations out if only she scrubbed hard enough. “I am sure I could have no use for your kind of service, Master Legrey.” Her strident tones drew the attention of several men dining nearby. “After all, I am neither a dog in heat, nor a strumpet so jaded that she cares not for the quality of her lovers, only the quality of their coin.” The hall was growing silent, as almost everyone became aware of the altercation. “Pray, do not address me again. Rather, keep all such intimacies between yourself and your right hand, which I am sure has suffered many assaults of a like nature since you became a man.” A few snickers sounded through the hall, followed by more as the men caught the meaning of Vivienne’s jibe. “Should I find myself growing restless in the future, be sure that I have only to think of your face, and it will be as though ice water were flowing through my veins. Thank you, sir, for your generous contribution to my continuing chastity.” And with that, Vivi spun on her heel and stalked off, as the hall erupted into uproarious laughter.

  Chapter Twelve

  By her fourth night with Connelly, she was so tired she probably should have slept through anything, but instead she lay awake, stewing. She hadn’t seen Fain MacTíre since she’d walked away from him in the still room, and that was starting to irritate her. Of course, she was mad at him. But she had questions that needed answers, and mad or not, she knew he was the man to ask.

  She didn’t want to see him. Of course she didn’t. That would be ridiculous. But he should want to see her. Enough to brave her displeasure and seek her out. The fact that he hadn’t
was... vexing. How could she demand answers of him if she never spoke to him? It would ruin all the drama of her last words to him if she went in search of him. She hadn’t even mentioned him since the morning that Marlplot had woken her up. She didn’t want anyone to know that she was thinking of him, wondering all the time if she would see him.

  But she was. Every time someone entered a room where she stood, Vivienne would hold her breath, waiting to see if it was MacTíre. She listened to footsteps in the hall, trying to hear his tread, and when voices echoed down the stone corridors she would hold quiet and concentrate, to check if his voice was among them. It never was, and the surge of disappointment she felt made her stomach ache.

  She missed the ridiculous, suspicious, overbearing lout. She wanted him to find her, see how tired she was, pick her up, and take her to bed. Then he could tuck her in and read stories to her until she fell asleep. If only he didn’t think such nasty things about her. If only he trusted her.

  Then maybe she could trust him.

  Belle hadn’t seen him in three days, but that didn’t mean that Fain hadn’t seen her. Both Marlplot and Billy Notter had kept him apprised of her whereabouts, and he had, several times, placed himself where he could watch her come and go without being observed. He’d been impressed with the work she had done in her new room, but neither she nor Marlplot had thought to check the chimney before lighting the fire. Once they’d left to eat at mid-day he’d worked quickly, raking the hearth coals into an iron bucket so he could sweep the chimney out. It was a good thing he did; an old bird’s nest had been lodged up high, and could have caused a fire in the keep if it had been left there. Once the fireplace was safe to use he dumped the coals back in the grate and threw a few more logs on, and then slipped away again before they came back.

  A few days later Connelly caught him, watching her trying to scrub out the giant cast iron pot.

  “If ye wish ta see the lassie, why not go speak ta her like a grown man?”

  “I don’t want to speak to her. I just want to make sure she’s behaving herself.”

  “Oh, an’ Marlplot, Master Notter, the Shapherds, an’ I canna keep one woman out o’ trouble without yer assistance?”

  “I’m not sure.” Fain spoke dryly. “Each and every one of you seems taken with the lass. If she asked you to help her catch a venomous serpent and slip it into my bed as a joke, I half believe you’d go along with it.”

  “Be fair, man. I’d only do it if I had the anti-toxin ta hand.”

  Fain rolled his eyes. “I’m serious. You all act as though she’s a harmless, charming young miss.”

  “Charmin’, ta be sure. But only a fool would go thinkin’ she was harmless.”

  “You agree with me, then?” Fain was startled.

  “Not a bit, man, yer daft in the head. That lass wouldna poison ye nor anyone. But that dinna make her harmless. Any more than a friendly wolf is harmless.” Connelly cocked an eyebrow at him, then sauntered into the kitchen.

  Fain stayed where he was, partially hidden in the corridor, and watched as Connelly spent the next half hour regaling the kitchen workers with a story of his boyhood friend, a stolen goat, and the local herder’s wrath. More men drifted by him, headed for the warmth and camaraderie. With the storm outside, there was little to do for those men not on sentry duty, and they tended to congregate in the kitchen, entertaining each other through the dreary hours. A few nodded to him as they passed him in the corridor, but made no mention of him joining them. Fain always held back from their gatherings.

  The Shapherds passed out mug after mug of tea as the men pulled chairs and benches closer to the fire and bent an ear to Connelly.

  Most of them had met Isabelle by now. They all glanced at her occasionally, as if to refresh themselves with the sight of a real, flesh and blood woman. Even as she was, dressed in his now completely filthy old shirt and breeches, scrubbing away at an old pot, she was lovely. Fain made a note to himself that, during the next clear spell, the men who hadn’t been on leave for a while should go. He didn’t want any of them making a fool of themselves over the lass, just because they’d been pent up too long on their own.

  “...couldna let poor Mickey take the blame, even if ’twas his fool idea ta begin with, so I told Master McLean that I’d seen that goat taken by a Fir Darrig, an’ the bloody old sot told me ta prove it!”

  Fain watched Belle sit back on her heels and laugh along with the others at the preposterous story. He knew how she laughed. He’d watched her, while she was bed bound. First her eyes sparkled in amusement, and she wrinkled her nose as though she were trying to hold back the giggles. Then peals of laughter would escape her lips. He couldn’t see from his spot by the door, but he knew the way she’d bite her lip just briefly when she was done. He knew the delighted smile she’d give; he’d caused it frequently enough himself.

  Gods be merciful, what was wrong with him?

  When the general mirth subsided, he saw her glare blackly at the porridge pot and go back to scraping at the sides with her fingernails. Matt Shapherd saw her and poked his brother, Marcus, and though both men sniggered, they quickly moved to offer her a wad of rough wool and a scraping tool. Once they showed her how to use them, she tackled the pot again, grimly holding it in place with her feet so that her good hand was free to scrub.

  She looked tired. It was more than her illness and the unfamiliar work, he thought; perhaps she wasn’t sleeping well in front of Connelly’s fire. Well, that was only fair. He wasn’t sleeping well in his own bed. The pillows smelled like her. He’d finally fallen asleep last night after promising himself that, as soon as the new batch of soap was ready, he was going to wash his bedding.

  He wasn’t sure it was going to help, though. When he slept he dreamed of her. Snatches of her days, moments he’d spied upon, and also things that had never happened, things he’d never allow his mind to dream of when he was awake. Belle in his arms, head laid gently on his chest. Sometimes the dream ended when she stabbed him in the heart with a black blade, and sometimes it ended when she stretched up to kiss him, drowning them both in passion. Either way he woke up with his heart racing, and lay awake, staring at the ceiling, fighting off memories of her laughing eyes as she lounged in his bed.

  He watched her lug the pot over to Matt Shapherd and present it with barely restrained pride. Matt examined it closely and nodded his head, and the dignified Miss Wellesley gave a little hop for joy. Shapherd chuckled and waved her off, and she dashed down the corridor towards the laundry room, presumably to rinse the grime off her hands and face. Fain watched her go and then shook his head. He was being an idiot. He needed to stop watching this woman; it was only making his dreams worse.

  Or better. Depending on how you looked at it. But either way was trouble.

  He started to go, and then caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Simon Legrey was following Miss Wellesley down the hallway. What business did he have with her? Fain had never cared much for Simon, but had allowed him to join the band when Legrey had arrived, much like Belle, half frozen outside the keep. Men that Fain knew and trusted had vouched for him, but there was always the chance that they could be misled. Perhaps Fain had uncovered a clue to the supposed Miss Wellesley. He crept down the laundry corridor on silent feet. If he was going to learn something, he needed to be unnoticed.

  Vivienne reluctantly lathered up the very last of Connelly’s soap. She hoped the quick set would be done soon. She didn’t want to have to go dirty, not with the work she’d been doing. The water in the wash bucket was clean and fresh, and she plunged her face directly in. She’d found it next to impossible to rinse her face with only one hand, so immersion seemed the only answer. Of course, it left her hair wet and bedraggled around her face, but that was a small price to pay.

  She flung her face back and wiped the water from her eyes with her newly cleaned left hand. Rivulets ran down her cheeks, and she quickly twisted as much hair as she could back into the wrecked braid on the back of he
r head. Most of it would stay until it dried; then it would fall in a dirty, matted curtain back in front of her eyes. She couldn’t wait to have clean, combed hair again. She lifted her hand one last time, trying to secure everything as well as possible.

  Two arms came around from behind her. The right one moved swiftly, covering her mouth with a large, beefy hand, while the left one snaked under her breasts, drawing her back against the body of her assailant. She screamed, but the sound was all but completely muffled, and she heard a low voice in her ear.

  “None of them can hear you, Miss Wellesley, so there’s really no use.”

  Simon Legrey sounded angry. As well he might. Men all over the keep had heard about her dressing him down, and had been mocking him with it ever since. Another time, Vivi might have thought on that with satisfaction, but now she was terrified. She had wounded his pride, and clearly he wanted some sort of revenge.

  She twisted and bucked her body as her left hand tugged frantically on the one covering her mouth, but she couldn’t budge it, nor could she break free. He chuckled, enjoying her distress.

  “Struggle all you want, my fine lady. Some men like their women sweet and biddable, but me?” He licked along her neck, leaving a trail of slime up to her ear. “I like to have them fight.”

  Rage coursed through her. He wanted her to fight, did he? Vivi felt in the mood to oblige him. She stopped trying to pull his hand away from her mouth, and instead shoved it hard against her teeth. Then, using every ounce of force she could muster, she bit down, hard.

  Fain watched Simon whispering in Belle’s ear, and wondered what they were plotting. He could barely see the lass, covered as she was by the much larger Legrey, but he knew she was there. He felt the anger growing in his chest at this evidence of her falsehood.

  It wasn’t until Legrey pushed Belle from him, screaming at the blood pouring from his hand, that Fain realized he’d gotten it wrong.