“What ho! Another loudly lamenting the loss of the late Marquess! I have never heard the like from so many rebellious servants!” Elise complained. She noted the entry of more trenchers of food and, with an impatient wave of her hand, directed the hirelings to a trestle table some distance away, as yet unwilling to let this oafish knave escape without first setting him in his proper place. “Tell me, is there aught that man was able to teach you about good manners?”
“Aye, ‘at ‘ere was.” The cowl muffled the deep voice as he wiped up spilled droplets with the sleeve of his tunic. “His lordship . . . the Mar’kee . . . ‘Twas his very ways I followed.”
“Then I’ll warrant you’ve had a dreadfully poor tutor,” Elise interrupted brusquely. “ ‘Tis a known fact Lord Seymour was a murderer and a traitor to the Queen. You’d do better to seek another source for your instructions.”
“I’ve heard ’em tales meself,” the servant replied, and continued with a short, scoffing laugh, “but I canna’ put much store in ’em.”
“ ‘Twas more than a tale,” Elise reminded him crisply. “Or at least the Queen thought so. She stripped the man of his holdings and gave them to my uncle. Obviously she recognized the better man.”
The man set the flagon down with a thump and leaned forward as if to confront her with a denial, unmindful of the cowl that fell away from his lower face. An unkempt beard of a light brown hue masked his jaw, and beneath the ragged wisps of whiskers hanging over his upper lip, his mouth was drawn back in a snarl. “Who made ye his judge, girl? Why, ye ne’er even met the man, an’ ye’ve no ken o’ the squire if ye say he’s the better man.”
Elise met those eyes which were now strangely piercing within the shadows of the hood. For a moment she was held frozen by the anger she saw blazing there, then she lifted her chin with an elegant air and dared counter his attack. “Are you some ancient sage that you can say whether or nay I met the man?”
Straightening to his full height, the hireling drew back slightly and folded his arms across his chest as he stared down at her with sardonic amusement. At best, the top of her head reached to the point of his bewhiskered chin, and had Elise not tilted her head back, she would have seen naught but a wide expanse of rough sacking covering his chest.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, mistress.” He pressed his hand to that broadness in a mocking gesture and swept her a shallow bow of apology. “I ne’er saw ye ‘ere when Lor’ Seymour was master, an’ I was o’ a mind ta think the two o’ ye ‘ad ne’er met.”
“Actually we never did,” Elise admitted, a trifle piqued at his challenging manner. The man deserved no explanation, and she wondered why she even bothered giving one. Daring to meet his taunting smile, she lent emphasis to her words. “But I would have known him just the same.”
“Indeed?” He gave her an oblique stare from the depth of the cowl “An’ could ye’ve said ‘twas him or nay had ye looked him in the eye?”
Elise’s temper sparked at the servant’s insolence. It was obvious he doubted her claim, and perhaps only common sense discouraged him from calling her a liar. Still, memories from a more recent time lingered in her mind, and she found it rather frustrating that she should be haunted by one she desired to forget . . . the portrait of the Marquess. At first, she had laid the cause of her admiration to the mood of the painting. The Marquess’s green hunting attire had added a debonair flair, while the pair of wolfhounds waiting alertly at his side had conveyed an adventuresome spirit, but in truth, it had been the handsomely aristocratic features, the darkly lashed green eyes, and the subtly taunting smile which had really attracted her and had compelled her to go back for another glimpse or two.
Elise realized the ragged servant was awaiting her reply with a tolerant stare, as if he regarded her silence as proof of a much-inflated boast. Her annoyance grew by a full measure and added to the crispness in her voice. “Obviously you smirk because you know I cannot prove my claim. The Marquess was killed attempting an escape.”
“Aye, I’ve heard it said meself,” her antagonist acknowledged. “On his way ta the Tower, he was, when he tried ta break free o’ the guards an’ was shot dead.” The servant leaned forward again and whispered furtively as if he encountered a dire need for secrecy. “But who’s ta say for sure what happened ta the Mar’kee after he tumbled from the bridge? ‘Ere weren’t nary a soul what ever saw him again, an’ ‘ere weren’t no leavin’s what any could find.” He sighed rather sadly. “Aye, ye can reckon ’em fishes feasted well ‘at night, ‘ey did.”
Elise shivered at the gruesome image conjured forth and, with an effort of will, dismissed what seemed to be a deliberate attempt to unsettle her. Purposefully she directed her attention to the matters at hand. “ ‘Tis the present feast we need attend to . . .” She paused, not knowing how to address the man. “I assume your mother gave you a name.”
“Aye, mistress, ‘at she did. Taylor, it be. Just Taylor.”
Elise swept her hand to indicate those seated at the trestle tables and instructed him on his duties. “Then, Taylor, I bid you see to the squire’s guests and their cups ere he takes us both to task for dallying.”
With a flourish of his own rag-covered hand Taylor stepped into a flamboyant bow. “Yer servant, mistress.”
Elise was rather astounded by his grace and could not resist a conjecture. “You copy your lord’s manners well, Taylor.”
A soft chuckle came from the man as he tugged the cowl closer about his face. “His lor’ship ‘ad as many tutors in his youth as a toad has warts. ‘Twas a game o’ mine ta follow what was bein’ taught.”
She raised a brow in mild curiosity. “And why is it that you keep your head covered and your face hidden? I’ve not detected a chill in the hall.”
His answer came quickly enough. “Nay, mistress, ‘ere be no chill. ‘Twas an accident o’ birth, ye see. Why, ‘ere be some what’d swoon at the merest glimpse o’ me poor face. I fear ‘twould be a dreadful sight for ‘ese foin folks ta bear.”
Elise refrained from further inquiries, having no wish to view the man’s deformities. She spoke a word of dismissal and watched him until assured he was applying himself well to his task. He moved around the trestle tables, refilling a goblet here or providing a new cup there as he alternated the use of the flagons, serving the ladies and elderly from one and replenishing the goblet of the stout-armed, able-bodied men with the other. Silently Elise gave her approval, admiring his foresight in serving a milder wine to give to the less stalwart.
Scanning the hall for more laggards, Elise almost relaxed as she saw that the servants were keeping busy. She let her eyes wander from table to table, assessing what further foods were needed, and failed to notice a guest stepping near until that one pressed close against her back The intruder slid a hand about her narrow waist and, before she could react, bent down to place a light kiss below her ear, just above the ruff.
“Elise . . . fragrant flower of the night . . .” a deep voice warmly crooned. “My soul doth yearn for your favors, sweet maid. Be kind to this poor fellow and let me taste the nectar from your lips.”
Elise’s temper exploded. She was not of a temperament to allow such fondling and would set this fellow back upon his heels! She came around with a hand drawn back, ready to strike this arrogant bumpkin who had so foolishly accosted her. Though her weight was slight, she had every bit of its force behind her and had every intention of landing a damaging blow to the fellow. She had visions of Reland’s conceited cousin, Devlin Huxford, nuzzling her neck, for she had noticed how he had ogled her for most of the evening. Her eyes flashed with indignant rage at the thought that he should be so bold, but as she faced the man, her wrist was seized and securely held against her attempts to withdraw. She lifted a smoldering-hot gaze to the dark, swarthy face above her own and met the deep brown eyes that fairly danced with laughter.
“Quentin!” she gasped in relief. “What are you doing here?”
Smiling down at her, he brought her slender
fingers in warm contact with his full and generous lips. “You look most enchanting this evening, Cousin. Certainly none the worse for having avoided the malice of the Radbornes.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward teasingly. “My mother may never forgive my brothers for letting you get away.”
“How can you jest so easily about your kin?” Elise asked in amazement. “They meant to do me ill, and ‘twas a miracle I escaped.”
“Poor Forsworth is still smarting from that blow you smote against his head. He swears you hit him with a club, and of course Mother laid more upon him for turning his back to you.” Quentin sighed in mock sympathy and slowly shook his head. “The lad will never be the same. You quite addled him, I’m sure.”
“Lord Forsworth, or so he has dubbed himself, was addled ere I touched him,” Elise derided. “Truly, I am much bemused that you came from the same stock. ‘Tis evident you have risen far above your siblings in both wit and wisdom, not to mention good manners.”
Pressing his hand to the rich cloth of his doublet, Quentin bent forward slightly to acknowledge her compliment. “My gratitude, fair damsel. There are certain advantages of being the eldest. As you know, Father left me the family’s country estate and wealth apart from Mother’s. Such comforts allow me to separate myself from the rivalries and conspiracies of my family.”
Elise lifted her slim nose, denying any excusal for the faults of his kin. The widow and younger sons of Bardolf Radborne belonged to a haughty class of aristocrats who wielded their power as impartially as they would a heavy broadsword on a field of battle, hacking down with destructive blows any who stood in their way. “Uncle Bardolf was just as generous with Cassandra, and there was more than enough wealth to provide for your mother and brothers for some time to come. If her reserves are dwindling now, then her own foolishness caused the waste. She covets what my father set aside for me and claims it belongs to her sons as part of the Radborne inheritance, but a pox on her and your three brothers if they believe the lies she conjures. You know well enough that as second son, my father had to acquire his own fortune, so there is naught of ours that belongs to your family. If not for the fact they took me prisoner and tried to force me to tell where my father had hidden the gold, I’d be inclined to think they were responsible for his abduction.”
Quentin’s brow furrowed in museful consideration as he folded his hands behind his back “I agree. It seems unlikely they’d attempt to force the information from you if they already had Uncle Ramsey in their possession.” He heaved a ponderous sigh. “I’m continually distressed by the games my mother and brothers play to gain riches.”
“They’re more than games,” Elise corrected icily. “Cassandra and her brood of banal-headed dolts meant to do me harm.” She paused, realizing how her aspersions might offend this member of their family and felt some chagrin at her own insensitivity. “I’m sorry, Quentin. I wound you, and I don’t mean to. You’re so different from the rest of your family, sometimes I forget to curb my tongue when I’m with you. I cannot understand why you ever entertained your mother’s wrath and took me away from them.”
An abortive laugh escaped his lips. “I fear my gallantry was shortsighted. I should have made my house secure against their trespassing. Then there’d have been no need for you to escape a second time.”
“Your brothers came while you were gone, creeping into your home like thieves in the night to drag me back to London. You cannot blame yourself, Quentin.”
His dark eyes probed the pools of deep blue. “I’ve been wondering . . .” His words were spoken hesitantly. “I would not ask, Elise, but I fear I must. What did my family do to you?”
Elise drew up her slender shoulders in a small, distressed shrug, not wishing to recall the cruelties of her aunt and cousins. Their abuses had extended beyond verbal insults to heavy-handed interrogations and, when that had failed, the withholding of food and simple comforts. They turned her bedchamber into a place of torment, and now that she was free, she was keenly aware that her memory of those weeks was best put behind her for the sake of her own sense of peace and well-being. “When taking actual account, Quentin, they did me no lasting harm.”
Despite her charitable words, Elise realized she was still atremble over the nightmare of her imprisonment. Forcing a smile, she glanced up at her cousin. “You’ve not told me why you’re here. I thought you had an aversion to Uncle Edward.”
“I cannot deny that fact,” he admitted with a chuckle, “but I would brave the vulture’s nest to see the fairest gem.”
“You’ve come too late, Quentin,” Elise admonished in a lighter vein. “The nuptials have already been spoken, and Arabella is now married to yon Earl.”
“My fairest Elise, I came not to see Arabella,” he declared with fervor. “But you!”
“And you, Cousin, most surely tease,” she accused with unfeigned skepticism. “You’d have better odds convincing me of your sincerity if you told me you came to see Uncle Edward. Arabella is a beauty no man can deny, and I’m sure many a rejected suitor came here tonight to bid her a fond adieu.”
Quentin’s grin was somewhat representative of a leer as he bent near her to whisper warmly, “Has no gallant troubadour ever sung sonnets praising your beauty, sweet Elise? Or were they too smitten by your perfection?” He sighed in exaggerated agony as Elise gave him a chidingly dubious stare. “Sweet maid, I do not lie! Your eyes are like gems, the most costly of sapphires. They sparkle from their fringes of black. Your brows are winged birds taking to flight, and your hair has the rich warm hue of cherrywood and a fragrance that makes me heady with delight. Your skin gleams with the soft luster of pearls . . . and promises to be most tasty.”
Elise continued to eye him in amused disbelief, unmoved by his ardent declarations. “The wine has most surely addled your wits if you think I will believe that nonsense.”
“I have not had a drop to drink!” he avowed passionately.
Disregarding his interruption, she pressed on. “I’ve heard many tales about you, Quentin. So many I daresay your prattle is frayed from much use. Surely many a maid has had like praises plied to her.”
“Forsooth, sweet maid!” Quentin laid a hand to his breast as he feigned a mournful protest. “You do me grave injustice.”
“And you, sir, beat your doublet in vain. We both know I accuse you rightly,” she challenged with a teasing smile. “You’re a rake worthy of the first merit. Why, ‘twas only a fortnight ago I heard similar prose expressed to Arabella . . . and from your own lips!”
“Can you be jealous, fair Elise?” Quentin asked in hopeful glee.
Ignoring his quick riposte, she continued undisturbed. “I trust Arabella, being duly betrothed to Reland, had the good sense to ask you to leave. As your cousin, I should hope to spare you.”
“Oh, sweetling,” he lamented dramatically. “You ply your tongue with the skill and zeal of an ill-tempered shrew, and I am left bereft of joy.”
“I doubt that.” Elise spoke past the laughter in her voice. As a woman, she could readily acknowledge the dark-eyed, dark-haired Quentin Radborne had both the good looks and charm to lure innumerable feminine admirers, but she was every bit as convinced that more than a few maids had been led to a sullied doom by his cajoling words and ardent attentions. Though she enjoyed his company, she was not of a mind to let her name be linked more than it was to his.
Elise paused, hearing her name called from across the crowded hall, and glanced about until she saw her uncle beckoning impatiently to her. His sharp frown clearly betrayed his displeasure, and there was no need for her to search for a reason. To say that he was even remotely tolerant of Quentin would have been stretching the truth to the extent of farfetched. His tone sharpened with the directive, “Come, girl! An’ be quick ’bout it!”
“Alas, your gatekeeper calls,” Quentin remarked disparagingly.
Elise raised a querying brow at her cousin’s dark humor. “My gatekeeper?”
A wry grin spread across the ful
l lips. “If Edward could, he’d lock you up in a tower and throw away the key, just to prevent me from getting too near. He’s afraid you’ll either lose the treasure he has his eye on or the one called chastity.”
“Then his worries are unfounded.” Elise smiled and lightly tapped Quentin’s doublet. “Not that you wouldn’t try to claim one or the other, mind you. I’m willing neither to be divested of my purse nor added to the long list of your conquests.”
Throwing back his head, Quentin gave vent to a torrent of uproarious guffaws. He could not help but admire this saucy wench for speaking her mind. She was destined to be a challenge to any man and a prize well worth the seeking.
Elise cringed inwardly, knowing how deftly his glee would enflame her uncle’s temper. It was not that she was afraid of Edward, for she held in reserve the prerogative to move out of the manor if ever he became too harsh or demanding. Nevertheless there were times when she was wont to keep the peace as much as she was able, and since it was Arabella’s wedding night, the occasion warranted such considerations.
Dipping into a quick curtsey, she excused herself “ ‘Tis my regret that I must leave your good company, dear Cousin, but as you say, my gatekeeper summons me.
Quentin nodded with a leering grin. “You may have been saved for the moment from this hoary wolf, fair damsel, but there shall come another time, I assure you.”
Elise made her way through the press and joined her uncle, who cast a contemptuous sneer toward the younger man who was now making his own way through the hallful of guests. Edward bent a baleful glare upon her. “Did I not tell ye ta keep yerself ta yer duties?” he growled in low, angry tones. “I gave ye no leave ta be cavortin’ with ‘at Quentin fellow. Have ye no shame?”
“For what offense should I feel ashamed?” Elise rejoined softly, causing her uncle to glower in sharp displeasure. In earnest she explained, “I merely passed a word or two with my cousin in the presence of your guests. I see no fault in that.”
So Worthy My Love Page 2
