She opened her mouth, but her eyes started stinging at a sudden upwelling of tears, and she had to swallow a lump in her throat. She was afraid of what he would say, but the answer to her question was more important than her fear.
“Have you ever—would you ever—spirit away an entire town?” Her voice shook as the words came rushing out. “Have you ripped families from their homes? Have you burned them out, or killed them, or thrown them in a dark hole to be left to rot?” She couldn’t stop, now that she had started. She reached forward her one good hand and clasped his knee, digging in her fingers. “Have you ever done anything like this?”
“No.” He set the jug on the ground and used both hands to hold her face. “No, Belle, I never have. I never would.” She could feel the force of his sincerity behind the simple words. “Not my people, nor anyone else’s.”
Relief washed over her. She had nothing but his word, but still...
“I believe you.”
She saw her own relief echoed in his eyes. He stroked a thumb over her cheek, just a light caress, before abruptly sitting back in his chair and picking up the jug again. Vivi’s face felt cold where his hands had been, but she loosened her fingers’ grip on his knee and sat back as well. Both of them focused on the fire.
“So trusting.” He sounded half teasing, half regretful. Her eyelashes were still damp from unshed tears, but she answered lightly enough.
“We can’t all be suspicious mountain Yeti, MacTíre.”
“Ready to tell me your name, then?”
She laughed. “One step at a time, Master Yeti. One step at a time.”
The winter settled on them in earnest. The early storms had clearly been an indication of what was to come, for as the weeks passed they rarely saw more than one day of sunlight before more snow would fall. Drifts piled deep in the valley around the keep, and the men spent long hours in front of the fires in the great hall. The mood in the keep slowly lightened again. No one forgot Dorshire, but their anger would keep until spring. For now they played endless rounds of cards and dice, wagering chores or silly forfeits.
Vivi spent some of her time in the kitche ns and the laundry, scrubbing pots and stirring the giant wash basin, but most of her hours were whiled away in the great hall, along with everyone else. Fain often sat in an empty corner, separating himself from the crowd of men around the roaring hearth, and though others were hesitant to approach him, Vivienne never paused.
“Anyone would think you were a hermit taking shelter from the winter’s cold, rather than the leader of this rag-tag bunch.”
He shrugged, not bothering to rise from where he sprawled on the long wooden bench. “I enjoy peaceful reflection, on occasion.”
“I think you just like brooding.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” He smiled. “Have you come to share my solitude and lighten my day?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve come to drag you over to the hearth where you belong.” He started to protest, but Vivi held up her hand. “Did we not have a deal? I shall behave, and you will comport yourself like a gentleman?”
“I’m fairly sure I promised to be a friend. I think being a gentleman might be beyond me.” He groaned, but allowed Vivienne to drag him back over to the fire.
They settled into an uneasy camaraderie. Once again they discussed the books they’d read, only now they spoke of histories, and philosophy, not just fairy tales. Fain’s education was telling, but every time Vivienne thought to ask where he’d studied or who his tutor had been she bit her tongue and held silent. He teased her about her brazen ways and taught her some of the simple games the men of the keep played in the winter, and if he occasionally held whispered conversations with the men, he at least didn’t glare at her suspiciously to make sure she stayed out of ear shot.
Their friendship grew, but that brought its own difficulties. Vivi was aware of how her heart beat faster every time Fain came in the room. She caught herself watching him from the corners of her eyes, eager to see his face, but nervous that he would catch her gazing on him. Half the time she felt giddy with the new feelings, and half the time she was morose, because despite the fluttery, infatuated madness that possessed her, Fain was unmoved. He treated her like a friend, no, worse—like a sister. He was kind to her, and seemed to enjoy her company, but he gave no indication that she inspired any sort of desire in him.
She was dwelling on this when Billy asked her to play Cat’s Cradle. She agreed, but had a hard time manipulating the strings. To make matters worse, the yarn kept catching on her arm splint. Vivi blew out a great sigh of frustration.
“I’m sorry, Billy, maybe I need to watch someone else do it, first.”
“I can show you.” Fain had been watching her hopelessly tangle the string, again and again. “Give it to me.”
He and Billy passed the string back and forth, making new webs between their hands. Vivi watched intently, forcing herself to focus on the movements, and not Fain’s proximity. When they were done, Billy quickly made the opening figure and held it out to her.
“You try.”
She managed the first one, but when Billy slipped the string from her fingers and held it back out again she was lost. She looked up at Fain in mute plea.
“Here.” He laughed. “I’ll help.” He closed his hand over hers. Vivi yanked her eyes back down to the string, but she couldn’t have said what she was doing. She was acutely conscious of the way his fingertips glided along each of her fingers, positioning them to catch the string properly. It was a surprisingly intimate touch, and it startled her. Her eyes flew to his face.
His own eyes, usually so carefully friendly, were full of longing. Vivienne knew his expression, because she wore it so often herself; tense with the desire to bridge the gap between them, but unable to do so. Her heart thudded wildly, and for a moment she forgot the string, forgot Billy, forgot the hall they were standing in.
“Fain...” It was just a whisper, but it sounded like a clarion in her ears. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the facade was back in place. He smiled at her cheerfully, and backed aways a small step, tossing the tangled string back to Billy.
“Truthfully, I’m better at jacks. Perhaps we should try that.”
Billy gave a little skipping hop and ran to get his jacks set. Fain announced a jacks tournament, and several men crowded round, eager to play the game. Vivi and Fain were jostled apart, but as she took her place in the ring of players she was oddly happy. He could pretend all he wanted that there was nothing but friendship between them.
She was going to break through that wall.
Vivienne had waited impatiently for weeks, and now she watched in apprehension as Connelly inspected her arm. He had finally pronounced that it might be healed enough to take the bracings off, and Vivi was longing for him to get on with it. She’d never itched so badly before in her life. The first thing she was going to do was immerse her entire arm in hot water and scrub it. With sand.
Connelly finally finished wiggling her fingers and moved on to cutting the lacings on the brace.
“Plannin’ on scalin’ the mountain an’ runnin’ home, now that yer arm is sound?” He teased her.
“I would have to be doubly a fool to try to go back through the mountains at the height of winter.”
“Aye, lassie. Claim that as yer reason. Surely ’tis not a thing ta do with a certain lad we both ken.”
“Of course not.”
The wrapping fell away, and Vivienne sighed in relief and started to scratch.
He slapped her hand away.
“None o’ that, now.” He frowned at her forcefully. “Wash it first. Ye dinna want ta be scratchin’ that dirt deep into yer skin. Tisn’t good for ye.”
Vivi scowled ferociously before letting her face fall into a smile. “I can leave the wrappings off, then?”
“Aye, lass. Yer arm will be a bit weak at first, but that will pass if ye use it well. Now run off to wash, I know ye want ta.”
&nbs
p; Vivienne bestowed a quick kiss on his cheek and then dashed off, waving at Marlplot to follow her.
It was sunny, so the laundry detail was hard at work, and they hailed her as she came careening into the wash room. Vivienne ignored them all and ran straight to the soaking tub and plunged her arm in, grabbing a bar of soap and a bristled brush and attacking the itchy skin. The men laughed, and Sean Kelly began heating one of the smaller kettles. When she finally lifted her arm from the dirty tub, he brought it over.
“Let me rise that for you, Mistress.”
“Bless you, Sean.” He poured the water slowly, letting her rub away the final traces of soap. When the kettle was empty, Benjamin handed her a small towel.
“Gentlemen, I am forever in your debt.”
“Think nothing of it, Belle,” said Benjamin. “We’re just grateful you’ll have two good arms to do the laundry from now on.”
She laughed and tossed the wet towel in his face. “Believe it or not, Ben, so am I.”
Chapter Nineteen
“You are the most stubborn, pig-headed, unreasonable man I’ve ever met!”
“Why? Because I won’t do exactly what you’re telling me to do?”
“Yes!” Fain smiled at Belle, and she sighed and slumped back against the wall. They were both sitting on a bench observing the men gathered in the great hall, and Belle was taking the chance to critique his leadership style. “Fine. I’m stubborn and pig-headed, too. But I’m telling you, Fain, you need to share yourself. Be more available.”
“I’m not their nurse, Belle, I’m their leader. They need to respect me.”
“And they do respect you; anyone can see that. But they live out here, far from their friends and family, and they need more than respect. They need to feel companionship and common ground.”
“We have common ground.” Little did she know just how much welded them all together.
“My father always says that, in order to lead men, you must be prepared to be their teacher, their confessor, and their father.”
“And what does your father know about it?” he asked, narrowing in on the comment.
She waved him away. “That’s not the point. You need to be their father.”
“Some of these men are twice my age.”
She huffed in frustration. “You are being purposefully obtuse.”
He grinned at her and watched the irritation bleed away from her face, replaced by the sparkling gaiety that was never far below the surface.
“My grandmother always said that a man’s sense was contrary to his size. That as one got greater, the other got smaller.” As she teased him, her eyes shone with a roguish merriment. Fain bit his lip on a smile. He enjoyed her wit. In fact, he enjoyed most things about her. The winter days had never passed so swiftly, now that he had her to spend them with.
And that was a problem.
Baines hadn’t returned yet. No doubt he’d been detained by the number and severity of the winter storms, but every day he was gone was another that Fain spent in Belle’s company. It was easy to forget to keep his distance when she lounged by the fire, teasing him, laughing with him, or smiling at him with those great, glowing, violet eyes. The very eyes that were twinkling up at him, even now.
A man could drown in eyes like that.
“Um, Fain?”
It took a moment for the small voice to register.
“What is it, Billy?” he asked absently, still gazing down into Belle’s face.
“Would you play Jackstraws with me?”
Fain tore his eyes away from Belle to look down at the pitiful little lad. The poor fellow had little to do in the winter months, and no agemates to spend his free time with. Still...
“Billy, I would gladly play a game with you, but Jackstraws is one I have never mastered. These sausages,” he wiggled his large, strong fingers at the boy, “are simply not clever enough.” Billy’s face fell, and Belle spoke up.
“I can play with you, Billy. My fingers are quite clever.” She smiled back up at Fain. “Just like the rest of me.” Standing, she brushed off her skirts and followed Billy back to his spot in front of the hearth.
Fain drifted along in their wake, settling down in a chair to watch the game. Several of the men took an interest in the match.
“You’ll not last long against our Billy, Mistress Bell e.” Ben said.
Eric Tully agreed. “Aye, the lad is devilishly quick with his fingers.”
“Ah, but Mistress Belle has the long, delicate fingers of a lady. She’ll be a champion, I wager,” chimed in Marcus Shapherd.
“That’s a wager I’ll take,” Ben replied, looking smug.
With little or no money in the keep and no goods beyond necessities, the men were in the habit of wagering humiliations. A fortnight ago, the whole keep had been mightily entertained by the sight of the Shapherd brothers, who had unwisely bet against Marlplot in a wood-splitting contest, eating nothing but what they could catapult into each other’s mouths with their spoons. Fain knew from experience that the longer the snows penned them indoors, the more outrageous the forfeitures would become. As more men called out their stakes on Billy or Belle, Fain began to wonder just how elaborate this one would get.
Both players were very clever at taking one of the thin straws without disturbing the others, and the group around the fireplace leaned in, intent on the game. They called out suggestions for easy moves or clever moves, and all held their breath when one of the contenders carefully slid a straw free. Finally, Belle jostled a straw, eliciting groans from the men who had bet on her. Those who had bet on Billy were delighted and immediately began plotting their forfeit. After a few moments’ consultation, Ben stood up and waved his hands for quiet.
“It has been determined that the forfeiture—” He was interrupted by loud groans, but waved them to silence once more. “Shall be to entertain us all with a performance two nights hence. And since it was her fault—” This time the interruption was caused by loud, boisterous cheers as everyone divined Ben’s intentions. “Mistress Belle shall organize it.”
“But I didn’t bet!” she objected loudly.
“Give it up, Ben, I wager she’ll never do it.” Fain spoke over the general uproar, and everyone heard. The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake.
“Oh really, Fain MacTíre?” Belle looked at him challengingly. “I think I’ll take that wager.” And with an audacious smile, she sauntered off and began gathering up her performers.
For the next two days, the whole keep was in an tizzy. Eight men had bet on Belle that night, but she pleaded, wiled, and outright bribed man after man, until more than a score were working on her little “project.” Those who weren’t actively working on the performance were engaged in rampant speculation over what it was to be. Even Fain was on fire with curiosity, although he managed to suppress it better than most.
At last the night of the big performance came. When the men rushed into the great hall, they found that all the trestle tables had been pushed together to make a rough stage by the far door, and the benches spread in rows of semi-circles around them. As they jostled and jockeyed for spots at the front, Belle quietly entered and stood in front of the lone chair positioned at the foot of the stage. A hush fell when the men noticed her, and she smiled out across the room.
“Tonight, for your enjoyment, we present Before the Bells, a play in three acts.”
Whistles and shouts greeted this humble introduction, but it was nothing compared to the uproar when Marlplot, dressed in a draped bedsheet for a flowing skirt, mounted the stage and began declaiming his opening speech.
“Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?
The money’s all gone and the mortgage is due!
Stepmother’s a spendthrift, her daughters lack sense;
We’ll be out on our ears, for we haven’t two pence!”
The play was a hit. Each new character, played by one of the keep’s men in ridiculous drag, brought forth an answering
roar of appreciation. Connelly, as the redoubtable Dame Merriweather, was brilliant, but the real star of the show was little Billy Notter, playing Princess Vivienne. Belle had coached him well, and he flounced across the stage with a royal petulance that made the Princess a figure of comedic greatness.
Fain watched his men as they cheered and clapped for Belle’s production. They looked different. Previous winter snows had seen the men grow somber and grim, missing their families and dwelling on the lives they’d left behind. They all still yearned for their families, but they seemed more content with their lives now, and happier in each moment.
He wasn’t a fool. It didn’t take much to figure out the source of the difference. She was standing at the front of the stage, prompting Marlplot on his lines. When the actors didn’t need her, she, too, scanned the faces in the crowd, and Fain saw the genuine delight she took in their enjoyment. She had worked hard on this production, and it was more than a bet to her. She truly wanted to make these men happy.
Baines had been right, when he said this was the kind of girl he would once have taken home to meet his father. He could imagine just how it would have been. His mother would love her wit and charm, while his father would love her wide-ranging knowledge of the world. His little brothers and foster-sister would love her free spirit, and her air of rebellion. He could imagine just how she would fit into his family, and into his old life.
But that life was gone, and he could never have it back. It didn’t matter how charming Belle would look, seated across from him at his family’s great candlelit table—that would never happen. Even if Baines came back and said that every word had been true, that she wasn’t a spy, Fain still had no family home to offer her. His place was here, in this ramshackle old keep, and her place was somewhere else, full of grace, and light, and warmth.
He would curb his imagination. No good could come of daydreams about a thing that could never be. He ruthlessly wrenched his eyes back to the stage, where Marcus Shapherd, playing Max Wellesley, was reciting:
As the Last Petal Falls Page 15
