by Julia Latham
The town of Richmond was a welcome sight to men who’d been urging their mounts ever higher into the flat, hilltop moors of the Pennines. Tom had three men-at-arms with him and they all grinned at each other when they could see the lights of the town on the River Swale, glittering in the distance against the snowy patches of ground.
The tavern they chose overlooked an ancient stone bridge that arched over the river. There was cheerful company, a huge stone hearth that warmed the room, and a plentiful supply of ale.
As Tom bit into a dripping lamb pasty, he thought of the woman he would soon meet. Cicely Winslow was reputed to be a true beauty, the sister of a baron. That the king had suggested her gave Tom pause, but then his cousin understood that he hadn’t had good luck persuading a woman to be his wife. By the devil, it had taken Tom a long time to even understand how to treat a woman after his unusual upbringing, and he’d made some foolish mistakes in the last year.
Tom took a swig of ale to hide his wince. He’d thought for certain he could persuade Lady Elizabeth Hutton, daughter of the earl of Alderley, to marry him, joining two great houses and settling Gloucestershire after his cousin’s ascension to the throne. But the situation had deteriorated, and before he knew it, he had kept her confined in her tower bedroom at Castle Alderley until he could confer with the king. And even then, she’d switched places with her maid to outwit him. Perhaps he should have relieved his steward, Milburn, for suggesting the plan. But Tom had to bear some of the blame, for he had gone along with him willingly enough, feeling desperate.
And now Tom wondered if his foolish mistakes had only earned him the chance to woo the daughter of a baron in the remote North Riding. Yet…Tom had been able to repair some of the damage to his reputation by assisting the king last summer in the delicate matter of traitors to the Crown. Perhaps Cicely Winslow was even a reward, of sorts, a beautiful woman easily won to wife. He wanted heirs, children to love and treat better than he’d been treated. He had thought he would never have a wife or children of his own, and the promise of companionable nights with his family drove him. For even though he’d renounced the priesthood six years ago, and spent the occasional night with a willing woman, his new life had gradually seemed lacking. He wanted to feel…close to someone, to feel loved and to love in return.
He thought he was finally ready to put the past behind him. After six years, the suspicion of his people had faded, if not entirely disappeared. But at the beginning of his rule, it had been a different matter. He had been the one with the most to gain from his brother’s death, although there was no proof that he’d committed the crime. It had taken several years of hard work and proof of his determination to be a decent leader to win the sympathy of his people.
But the king’s court was another matter. He knew there would always be men who thought he’d killed his brother out of greed and ambition. And for a long time, their suspicion forced him to pretend to search for his brother’s murderer. But although the maidservants had shared suspicion with him, no one had been identified. Even he hadn’t seen the girl’s face, for he’d been staring at his dead brother while she’d pulled her hood forward to disguise her features.
Perhaps the king thought a happy marriage would further his acceptance at court. Yet it was hard to persuade a noblewoman that he was nothing like the rumors about him. Maybe Cicely Winslow would be different.
Or maybe she just wanted to escape this frigid corner of Yorkshire. Tom drained another tankard of ale, feeling his toes begin to unfreeze at last. He tapped his foot in time to a patron’s lute and smiled as several women began to dance. The crowd grew raucous, clapping a beat and roaring approval as the women dipped and swayed their hips. Their garments clung tightly to their breasts, and Tom watched with hearty appreciation. After so many years of being unable to even look at a woman, now he found that he could stare at their graceful forms like a starved man. When one of the women ended up in his lap, he’d had just enough ale to agree to her whispered proposal. He followed her out of the public room and up to the chamber he’d paid for.
When the door closed, he reached for her, but she stepped away, laughing as she plopped a horn of ale on the small wooden table.
“More drink, milord?” she said, swaying, a lock of her dark red hair loose at her shoulder, her smile full of promise. “The night is far too cold.”
He grinned. “Then let me warm you.”
When he reached for her waist, she eluded him, uncorking the horn and taking a sip before passing it to him. The wench was right, he thought, drinking deeply. His belly burned with warmth, though the fire in the hearth was meager, and the shutters rattled with the wind.
The woman took the horn away and pulled him to his feet. To his surprise, he swayed as the chamber slowly spun around him, so he kept a grip on her hands.
“I have not had too much drink,” he insisted, feeling vaguely astonished.
She pulled him toward the bed and pushed him onto it, releasing his hands. When he would have sat up to pull her into his arms, she retreated, smiling as she began to loosen the laces that trailed down her chest. Tom relaxed back on his elbows to watch.
And then the chamber faded into darkness, and he knew no more.
The first thing that awoke Tom was a deep, penetrating cold, the kind that made one shake relentlessly. He rolled onto his side and groaned. The depths of his bones felt as if they would never get warm again. He had thought for certain that his party had reached an inn the previous night. Had his fire gone out?
He stopped breathing, his body going tense as memory returned. He had reached Richmond and a warm tavern. As he cracked open his eyelids, all he saw was gloomy darkness lit by a single torch in a stone wall. Mice skittered across the ground nearby.
He slowly moved his hand to his waist and found his sword gone, as well as his dagger. Even more wary, he silently lifted his head, but saw nothing except the rough-hewn rock walls and a solid wood door with a grill for a window. The wall was close at one side, and he realized that he lay on a wooden pallet raised above the floor.
Tom sat up and swung his legs over the side, only to hear the rattle of chains and feel the weight of it against one ankle. Someone had chained him. The sensation of being enclosed and trapped tried to panic him, but he wouldn’t allow it. He was no longer the child who’d been forced by his family to live a solitary life.
Rising to his feet, he walked forward, but the chain went taut before he was within five paces of the door. He examined the metal shackle at his ankle and found it old but secure. The other end was affixed to the wall. He yanked on it as hard as he could, but it didn’t even tremble. The chain wouldn’t permit him to test the door, but he could reach a privy hole, only a crack in the rock floor, at the far end of his cell. There were no windows, so he had to face the truth that he might be in a dungeon.
“Is anyone out there?” he yelled at the door, his voice echoing in the stillness.
No one responded, and he found himself wishing that there was at least a fellow captive to answer some of his questions. But he seemed to be the only prisoner. He paced for a while, trying to call to mind everything that had happened the night before. He’d been fine until he’d accompanied the woman back to his chamber. She’d given him something to drink. But damn, had she not drank from it, too? He could have sworn so. If she’d just wanted to rob him, it would have been easy enough after she’d rendered him unconscious. But the jeweled ring of his viscountcy was still on his finger, and his pouch of coins was still at his waist. Why take him captive?
He could find no answers. Without outside light, he had no idea how much time passed as he paced in frustration. He briefly sat on the pallet, but even with the blankets—clean, adequate blankets, he noticed with puzzlement—it was almost too cold for comfort. He realized that if someone didn’t return soon, he might very well freeze if left here long enough. Or starve to death, of course, he thought cynically. To keep from imagining the worst, he began to feel along the walls that h
e could reach, looking for a weakness.
Suddenly, he heard the clank of a door somewhere down a long, echoing hall. Through the grill, he could see a light bob ever closer. He waited tensely near the pallet, hoping his captor wouldn’t realize how long the chain was. Let them just step too close and—
He could see shadowy movement through the grill, heard the key scrape in the lock. It seemed to take forever for the lock to turn over. He stood on the balls of his feet, ready to spring forward.
But when the door opened to the outside, he could only see the slim shape of a woman carrying a lantern in one hand and balancing a covered tray on the other. But not the same woman who’d drugged him. This one was tall and held herself proud and stiff. She wore a plain dark gown that only revealed her slim curves. Yet even without being well rounded, she was definitely an appealing woman. Her hair was a light shade of blond, but it was pulled back beneath a felt hat with a turned up brim. Her narrow face was still, hesitant, and she watched him with wary gray eyes.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Who has imprisoned me here? I am Viscount Bannaster, cousin to the king, and—”
“I know who you are, my lord,” she said in a low, even voice. “But I know little else. I am to care for you until my master decides what to do with you.”
“Who is your master?”
Her direct eyes lowered at last. “I cannot say, my lord.”
“Why am I here?”
“I do not know.”
“What is this place?”
“I cannot say.”
“Is it ransom he’s demanding?” Frustrated and angry, he suddenly rushed toward her, but she didn’t even flinch as the chain caught him short of her by several paces. “Damn you, I need answers!”
She hung the lantern from a peg in the wall near the door. “I am told that you will receive them when we’re able to give them. Know that this is not a permanent situation.”
“And I’m supposed to accept your assurances?” he asked scornfully.
She only bowed her head.
“Where are my men? Why aren’t they here?”
“They were not apprehended with you, my lord.”
“So they think I simply vanished.”
“You and your horse.”
“They are supposed to think that I left them?” he said, outraged. “They will not believe that.”
She shrugged.
“They will find me.”
She made no response.
For the first time, he began to wonder if this had anything to do with his brother’s death, or even his foolish imprisonment of Lady Elizabeth. A chill of foreboding rippled down his spine. Did someone want to see him punished, since the law had been unable to? Yet this woman seemed to believe he would not be kept here forever. Unless, of course, she was being lied to, all to enlist her assistance.
“Would you like to eat?” she asked.
At her words, his stomach gave a low growl. His jaw clenched, for he hated to show any weakness. He wanted to fling the tray back at her, insist he would not eat until he was given answers. But these people had the power to outlast him, he knew, and it wouldn’t be all that long before he would have to eat or die.
“So what have you put in the drink this time?” he asked with sarcasm.
She only cocked her head in confusion. “I…know not what you mean, my lord. I have brought you a wineskin.”
“Drink from it.”
“Your pardon, my lord?” she said in puzzlement.
“I was already drugged once by orders of your master, and I won’t be again. Eat and drink while I watch.”
“Very well, my lord.”
To his surprise, she gracefully knelt down before him, put the tray on the floor, and lifted the cloth. A large bread trencher was covered with stew, thick with gravy and chunks of meat and vegetables. There was another loaf of bread and the wineskin she’d mentioned. His stomach growled loudly, and she glanced up at him. Her face did not lose its impassivity, but he thought her eyes brightened. Was that her version of laughter? Behind those eyes was the intelligence of a woman who was more than a servant.
He narrowed his own eyes at her. How could she be amused when he was being held against his will? She sobered and began to eat, taking several bites of the stew.
“Now the bread,” Tom said.
She broke off a piece and ate it.
“Surely you’re thirsty,” he added with sarcasm.
After lifting the wineskin to her lips, she drank deeply. A drop of red wine slid down her cheek toward the smooth tendons of her throat, and Tom found himself watching its path far too closely. He groaned and closed his eyes. He had spent too much of his life forbidden from looking at women, and now he could never get enough. Even staring at this plain young servant made him want to touch her. There was something…mysterious about her, hidden depths that were just beneath the impassivity of her gaze.
He ran a hand through his hair and turned away. He would not become like his brother, thinking of the maidservants as his playthings.
“Are you satisfied, my lord?”
He glanced over his shoulder to find her standing again, watching him solemnly. “Leave it.”
She turned away and reached for the lantern.
Did he want to be alone again? He spoke the first words he could think of. “I’m surprised that you are taking the lantern but leaving the torch. I could start a fire to alert people to my imprisonment.”
She paused and faced him once again, hands linked serenely before her. “You could, my lord, but let me assure you that no one would notice. The dungeon is in the rear of the castle, and only my master and I know of your captivity. You could die from the smoke before I return, and that might not be until the morrow.”
“So that implies that you’re only bringing one meal a day?” he demanded belligerently.
“Whatever my master orders.”
He was sick to death of hearing about this absent man, but there was nothing he could do except threaten. “The longer I’m here, the worse it will be for your master.”
She nodded. “I am certain he realizes that. Good day, my lord.”
Taking her lantern, she left the cell and spent a long time making sure the door was locked—the door he couldn’t reach because his ankle chain wouldn’t permit it. Impotent anger infused him, and he barely kept himself from flinging the tray at the door. But all that would get him was more hunger, making him too weak to take a chance at escape when it presented itself.
Diana Winslow walked to the end of the corridor in the dungeon and looked up at the stairs leading to the inner ward. Her hand shook, making the lantern swing. She blew out the candle inside it, then sat down weakly on the stairs in the dark. There were no guards on duty but her; no one within the castle—but Mary and Joan—who knew that there was a viscount locked in the abandoned dungeon.
She covered her face and found herself listening for him. But she heard nothing except the occasional clink of the spoon on the tray.
God above, what had she done?
She had panicked, that’s what she’d done. When her sister Cicely had gloated over the fact that Viscount Bannaster was coming to court her, Diana had been too stunned at the news to mind Cicely’s superior grin. Bannaster is coming here? had been all she could think, over and over again. And then more questions had begun to hammer her brain. Why was he coming? Had he discovered her identity at last?
And then Diana had enlisted Mary and Joan, who’d understood her fears. They had been happy to serve Diana for the last six years, and now they, too, worried that the past had caught up with them. Diana would never forgive herself if because of her, both women were also under suspicion in the late viscount’s death.
When Bannaster had been farther down the dale, he’d sent word of his approach. Diana had known he’d stop in Richmond that night, for the road into the hills was too unsafe in the darkness. There were only a few inns, making it easy enough to find him. Because Diana could not
risk him recognizing her, Mary had offered to disguise herself as a loose woman. She’d lured Bannaster into his chamber, fed him the ale they’d tampered with, and the three of them had managed to drag him down the rear staircase to their cart waiting in the courtyard.
It was too much of a coincidence that Bannaster could have heard about Cicely, not when he lived in Gloucestershire, and spent much of his time in London. Kirkby Keep was a crumbling castle in the wild hills of Yorkshire, far from civilization. Diana had been banished there several years before by her brother Archie. And then Cicely had joined Diana in banishment when Archie’s patronizing abilities at court had landed him a bride who was jealous of Cicely’s beauty. The two sisters, who had never got along, were now forced to inhabit this small castle that Archie neglected, waiting and hoping that their brother would send eligible men their way. And that didn’t happen much.
Bannaster coming to court Cicely, of all the women in England, eight days before Christmas, seemed like such a remote idea that Diana could only conclude one thing. He was sick of bearing the weight of suspicion in his own brother’s death. When she’d realized six years ago that he would be blamed, she’d almost returned to take her punishment. A Bladesman, who was her contact with the League, had not allowed it, convincing her that Bannaster’s position as the new viscount, and the lack of proof he’d committed the crime, would protect him. And it had—but not from ridicule and suspicion. Everything Bannaster had suffered was her fault.
But…he hadn’t recognized her. Aye, she’d made sure she looked different, leaving her hair mostly uncovered rather than disguised by a wimple, as it had been before. She wasn’t wearing the coarse garments of a servant.
