Birthright

by Markland, Anna

  He tore off the shirt he had donned hastily moments before, ripped off a length of it, soaked it in one of the buckets, and tied it around his face.

  Adam followed his example.

  Vincent put a hand on Adam’s arm. “It’s too dangerous. It’s our responsibility, mine and Lucien’s.”

  Denis shoved him, his blood boiling. Two women might die, perhaps because they were afflicted with some sort of deformity. It was too close to his heart. “You should have thought of that before you allowed them to be kept up there.”

  Denis and Adam hastened to the lower flight of stairs, Adam taking them two at a time. Burning thatch fell here and there, but the planked floor of the second story was still mostly intact.

  Denis heard a choked scream and the sound of a door banging. “They are still alive,” he yelled.

  * * *

  It was not the smell of smoke that awoke Paulina, but the demented screams of her mother. She pulled the linens up to her chin, biting her quivering lip.

  For the second time in a day voices were raised in anger and confusion. Her father was shouting foul murder.

  The glow of embers in the grate illuminated Rosamunda as she stirred, then sat up. She frowned, pinching her nostrils.

  Paulina sniffed. Smoke. And not from the grate. “Fire!” she exclaimed, leaping from the bed, gooseflesh crawling over her skin. She hurried to the door, thrusting it open. The landing was filled with smoke. The banners she had glimpsed briefly when she had yanked Rosamunda back into the chamber were now floating bits of scorched fabric. Flames licked at the rafters. Fear wound its tendrils into her belly. She screamed, slamming the door shut.

  Hastily, she dragged a bliaut over her nightshift and threw one to Rosamunda. “The house is on fire. Put on your slippers, quickly. We must leave or we could be trapped.”

  Rosamunda’s eyes widened in fear. She stumbled from her bed and ran to the door, clumsily pulling the bliaut over her nightshift. Paulina blocked her way. “Too much smoke.”

  They both looked to the window. Paulina might squeeze through it, but they were three floors up.

  Smoke seeped under the door; breathing became more difficult.

  Paulina covered her mouth and nose with the wide sleeve of the bliaut. She took Rosamunda’s hand and rasped, “The garderobe.”

  Rosamunda frowned, but allowed Paulina to drag her to the privy. Their grandfather had apparently boasted proudly of the modern addition he had made to Kingston Gorse. Imprisoned as they were, both girls had been grateful that the house had a privy shaft. It made life more civilized.

  Paulina had no idea where the end of the shaft came out, but braving that unpleasant unknown was preferable to burning to death.

  She shoved aside the heavy curtain separating the garderobe from the main chamber. “Help me,” she insisted, straining to push off the wooden planking that covered the hole.

  They peered down into blackness. Rosamunda grimaced and held her nose. Paulina’s throat was raw, her eyes watering. She hoped she did not look as deathly pale as her sister.

  “Afraid,” Rosamunda mouthed, stark fear in her eyes.

  Paulina shook her head, gagging on the smoke. “A rope—with the linens.”

  She staggered to regain the chamber, but the smoke was too thick and she was forced to retreat into the garderobe. Rosamunda lay slumped against the privy, gasping for breath through the sleeve mask, her eyes glazed.

  Hopelessness flooded Paulina. She swallowed the lump in her throat, resigned to the inevitable. Sobbing, she lay down beside her beloved sister, stroking Rosamunda’s hair, praying for deliverance to heaven.

  “At least we will die together.”

  The Pain Of Rejection

  Burning thatch showered down around Adam and Denis as they made their way up the smoke-filled staircase to the upper chambers. The hungry flames were greedily consuming the house. Timbers hissed and popped. Denis glanced down to see the Lallement brothers thundering up the stairs behind them.

  It angered him, but was also a relief. If there were two women trapped upstairs, it was unlikely he could carry either to safety.

  Adam put his shoulder to a door. He stumbled into the chamber as it gave way easily. Denis followed. Vincent staggered in behind them, hacking breathlessly.

  They peered into the smoke.

  Lucien arrived. “The garderobe,” he rasped.

  Denis dropped to all fours and crawled in the direction Lucien had pointed. He bumped head first into a heavy curtain. He thrust it aside and shouted, “Here.” The rag around his mouth muffled his shout.

  Two women lay slumped against the privy, or perhaps a woman and a child.

  A child?

  He scrambled to her side, dragging her into his arms. He put his ear to her mouth. Still breathing. He could carry a child. The others would have to save the woman.

  He hugged the girl to his bare chest, preparing to hoist her over his shoulder. The soft breasts pressed against him did not belong to a child. His shaft chose that inappropriate moment to stand to attention.

  Perhaps a dwarf after all.

  A fierce determination to save the life of what now appeared to be a tiny woman surged through him. He lifted her over his shoulder and came to his feet.

  Vincent jostled him. “Let me take her.”

  Denis snarled. “Non!”

  He turned to leave the chamber, vaguely aware of his brother beside him, the other woman cradled in his arms.

  * * *

  As Adam made his way quickly down the burning stairway, he glanced at the face of the woman he carried. Despite the smoke smudges, the tangled hair, and her pallor, she was beautiful. His heart hammered in his chest as her eyes fluttered open and she spoke.

  He gasped for air. “Don’t worry. I will keep you safe.”

  She frowned and it dawned on him his mask had muffled his voice.

  She replied, but again he could not hear.

  He reached the lower floor, where the bucket brigade seemed to have the fire under control. He stumbled out into the courtyard. Willing hands reached to take the woman from him, but he strode on past piles of furniture, tapestries, paintings, and the like, until they were safely away from the house. He knelt to lay her down carefully on the damp grass then tore off his mask, gulping in air.

  The woman reeked of smoke and she coughed uncontrollably. He helped her sit up. She spoke again. He had never been as frustrated by his deafness. She likely judged him an imbecile too dimwitted to reply.

  Lucien dropped to his knees beside them, showering kisses on the woman’s face, stroking back her hair. “Rosamunda, sweet sister,” he sobbed.

  Jealousy ripped through Adam. He put a hand on Lucien’s shoulder, seized by an inexplicable urge to shove him away. He wanted to be sure of her name, uncertain whether he had heard it correctly at dinner. “She is Rosa?”

  Lucien turned a tear-streaked face to him. “Rosamunda. Thank you, Adam. You saved her life.”

  Adam was tempted to pound his fists into the man. Instead, he looked into the woman’s eyes, seeing the glow of the burning roof reflected there, and rasped, “Rosamunda, I am Adam de Montbryce.”

  She smiled and replied. She might have said I know, but she couldn’t know who he was. Impatient rage tore at his heart.

  Lucien touched his arm. “She is mute.”

  Adam suddenly understood why this young woman had been shut away. Emotions warred within him. If he had been born deaf, would his parents have shunned him? He had only to look at Denis for the answer. But doubtless Rosamunda was not the only child who had suffered neglect because of an impairment.

  For reasons unknown to him, he leaned over to brush a kiss on her lips. Her eyes widened and she returned the kiss, curling her arms around his neck.

  Lucien scowled.

  Adam drew back. This was foolhardy. He had nothing to offer this young woman. He wanted to run his hands over her lovely breasts and shapely hips, evident despite her wretched garb. She was a woman b
orn to bear children.

  After what she had suffered, she deserved a man who could give her children, a whole man. If only he had met her before his illness. He came to his feet. “I must find Denis. I leave you in the capable hands of your brother.”

  * * *

  Rosamunda’s heart raced. In minutes she had gone from terror to elation to despair. Choking in the garderobe, she’d been certain death was imminent. Inexplicably, she had opened her eyes to find herself in the arms of a man she knew in her heart was Adam de Montbryce. His nose and mouth were covered, but his ice-blue eyes had burned into her soul. Cradled against his bare chest, she had felt safe, despite the dangerous descent from the attic rooms.

  What a sight she must be, yet he had kissed her. The brush of his lips against hers sent strange new sensations tingling through her body. She longed for a voice to properly thank him for saving her life.

  But then Lucien’s disclosure of her muteness had dawned on him fully and he had withdrawn, leaving her bereft. Perhaps Paulina had the right of it. Rejection was painful.

  Lucien smoothed her hair off her face, his eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Rosamunda. Forgive me my weakness.”

  She pressed his hand to her cheek. “Paulina?”

  Lucien peered into the darkness. “She is safe. The dwarf saved her.”

  She frowned. “Dwarf?”

  “It’s a long story, ma soeur. But I cannot tell it yet. Maman and Papa are both dead.”

  Rosamunda closed her eyes as tears flowed unbidden. She could not cry for her mother, but she had loved her father, despite his weakness.

  She and Lucien clung to each other, one in their grief.

  An Ancient Gargoyle

  Agony gnawed at every bone in his misshapen back and hips, but Denis was determined not to lay his burden down until they were safely away from the house. He fell to his knees in the grass, thankful of Vincent’s help supporting his sister as she slumped forward off Denis’ shoulder.

  On his knees, Vincent cradled her, sobbing.

  Denis tore the mask from his face, thumping his chest with his fist as fits of coughing racked his body. Panting heavily, trying to control the tremor that had taken hold, he looked through bleary eyes at the woman whose life he had saved. At least he hoped he had saved her. She had not opened her eyes, despite Vincent’s heartfelt entreaties.

  He blinked rapidly, sure he must be imagining things. Paulina, for so Vincent had called her, was a beautifully formed woman—but she was his height. He shivered again, but for a different reason. This was no child. His fingertips tingled. Paulina’s breasts would fit perfectly in his big hands.

  This woman had been made for him.

  Her eyelashes fluttered and she moaned.

  It came to him what a fearsome sight he must be. His features were ugly at the best of times. If she saw his smoke-blackened face and body—

  She will believe she has gone straight to hell and been greeted by an ancient gargoyle.

  He scrambled to rise before she opened her eyes, but it was too late. She lifted heavy lids and stared at him. Without blinking, she took several deep breaths.

  Over the years, he had become indifferent to whether people liked him or not, but his gut roiled at the possibility this woman might be repelled. As he knelt, gazing into her warm, brown eyes, aware of the rise and fall of her breasts, Denis was speechless for the first time in his life.

  He wanted to tell her she was beautiful, that he would willingly spend his life making amends for the wrongs done to her. But all that came to his lips was, “I am Denis de Sancerre.”

  She frowned, looked up at her brother, then back at Denis.

  His heart thudded in his ears. He had never felt so vulnerable, and he didn’t like it. Revulsion had obviously struck her dumb.

  * * *

  One minute Paulina was gasping for breath in the garderobe, the next she was staring into the gaze of a strange little man with a barrel chest and huge forehead. She heard Vincent murmuring her name over and over, begging forgiveness.

  It seemed she had not died. She had a vague memory of being carried over someone’s shoulder. Had this miniature man saved her?

  She had believed she was the only person of her height, but evidently such was not the case. Her savior was not handsome, but the longing in his green eyes touched her heart.

  Life could not have been easy for this man whose head was too big for his body and whose shoulders seemed permanently hunched. Yet, he was an impressive presence. His name confirmed his nobility. He was Adam de Montbryce’s half-brother.

  A thousand questions swarmed through her head. Beside her knelt a man of stunted stature who had lived in the world. What was it like? Had he been persecuted? Would she be shunned by people? But his gaze held her in its thrall and she could not get the words out of her mouth.

  It came to her suddenly that she had not given a thought to her sister. “Rosamunda?”

  Vincent hugged her to his chest. “Rosamunda and Lucien are safe, but maman and papa are dead.”

  She shivered, but felt no grief for the parents who had incarcerated her. She looked again at the strange man still kneeling beside her. “Did you save me, Vincent?”

  “Non, it was Denis who carried you out.”

  Paulina looked back at the house where she had spent her life, the top half now a smoldering ruin, gaunt against the night sky. She was tiny, but it must have taken enormous courage and strength to carry her from the third floor. She wondered if it was appropriate to touch his face in thanks. She had no experience of men besides her brothers.

  Sancerre unexpectedly took her hand and brushed a kiss on her knuckles. His big hand swamped hers. She had a strange urge to press its warmth to her tingling breast, to touch the hand he had kissed to her own lips. The fire must have addled her wits, or made her ill.

  He rolled to his side and came to his feet. For the first time she noticed his misshapen spine and hips. They shared a lack of stature, but his deformities were more severe than hers. Yet, he had apparently made his way in the world. Did she have the courage to do the same? Fear shuddered through her. Heat soared into her face when she realized she had been staring at him. “I thank you, Denis de Sancerre,” was all she could manage.

  He bowed stiffly and walked away.

  * * *

  Denis clenched his fists. He knew better than to expose his heart. How foolish to imagine that because Paulina was small she would instantly fall in love with him. He was a monster. Sometimes he forgot, but her shudder at the sight of him had reminded him of it sharply.

  He felt cold and very exposed without his shirt. No wonder she had been repulsed. The night air was chilly and the Lallement household had no roof over their heads. He hastened off to locate Adam. They had to get everyone to East Preston as soon as possible.

  Free At Last

  Paulina and Rosamunda found each other and clung together in silence for long minutes, Paulina’s head resting on her sister’s breast. Finally, the tears fell.

  Vincent brought blankets, then left quickly. They huddled together, watching Adam and Denis help their brothers organize the servants in preparation for departure to East Preston at first light.

  Denis de Sancerre’s head came only to his brother’s waist, and his gait was an ungainly stride, but he was as commanding a presence as the taller men.

  The servants obeyed his orders without question. Many gaped more at the two women, obviously amazed they had lived in the chambers above them without their knowledge, one of them an obvious freak. This was how life would be now they were free.

  Paulina was relieved no one else had died, though several had to have burns salved, and some of the younger female servants stood together, whimpering. She suspected Denis and Adam had suffered burns, but neither had complained.

  The stables had mercifully been spared. Horses were available for their journey. Neither she nor her sister had ever ridden.

  The visitors had retrieved their belongings fr
om the lower chambers which had suffered only smoke damage. Denis de Sancerre looked like a miniature knight, a sword that must have been specially made for him bouncing on his hip. He had donned a clean shirt and doublet, and somehow managed to wash his face and tie back his thick curly black hair with a leather thong.

  Paulina sniffed her bliaut. “I stink, but our clothing is lost.”

  Rosamunda rubbed her arms and face. “I want to wash.” She held her nose. “Dirty.”

  Paulina pouted. “The servants have ignored us. I suppose they are wondering who we are, and Thomas and Agnès are avoiding us.”

  Unexpectedly, Denis was beside them. He set down a bucket of water and put linen rags in their laps. “This will have to suffice, I’m afraid, until we reach East Preston. There you can luxuriate in a hot tub and wash away the smoke.”

  Exhausted, Paulina inhaled deeply and conjured a vision of lying naked in a tub of hot water, Denis de Sancerre washing her hair, dripping water from a sponge over her breasts, trailing his thick fingers—

  As if he’d read her thoughts, he smiled, transforming his face into a thing of beauty. She breathed a sigh of relief that the darkness hid her embarrassment. “We thank you, Sir Denis,” she murmured.

  He went down on one knee. “Please, not so formal. Simply Denis. I wish I could do more. You have lost a great deal tonight, but at least you are free.”

  Rosamunda squealed her delight.

  Paulina kept silent. It remained to be seen if freedom brought what Rosamunda expected.

  The linen still lay in her lap. Denis took it, dipped it in the water, and carefully cleansed her face. It was the first act of simple kindness anyone other than her siblings had ever done for her. She wanted to cry like a baby and rain kisses on his full lips.