by Julia Latham
“Ah, if only it were summer,” Cicely said, catching up to Diana as they took the stairs up to the great hall. “We could decorate the entire castle in flowers for Lord Bannaster.”
“I don’t think men care as much for flowers as women do,” Diana said, glancing with reluctant amusement at her sister.
Cicely’s pert nose rose in the air. “As if you know anything about men.”
Diana arched a brow.
“I mean men when they’re courting women,” Cicely amended mockingly. “Fighting in the mud with them does not make them treat you as a woman.”
“That is very true.”
They went to the head table, and for once, Cicely seemed to be studying her.
“Do you not regret being trained with the boys?” Cicely asked. “Father only allowed you to do so to spite Archie.”
“Who made sure to take out his repressed ire on me when he became the baron.”
“Your banishment is old news.”
Not wanting to ignore an honest question, Diana at last shook her head. “When you were interested in embroidery, I only cared about how to throw a dagger. When you were learning to sew, I was learning to fish.”
“Better if you had been born a boy, than to be so…in between.”
It wasn’t said maliciously, to Diana’s surprise. “I used to think so, but now I don’t know.”
“Because there are so many men courting us?” Her voice was bitter.
Diana only shrugged.
Cicely seemed to shake herself back into her sunny mood. “I won’t think about Archie’s ill treatment of me anymore. Today I’ll have a suitor, a viscount!”
Surely she’d just said his title for the hundredth time.
“When he sees me, he shall want to rescue me from this place, to protect me, I just know it!”
It was on the tip of Diana’s tongue to point out that the viscount would see by their shabby keep that there would not be much of a dowry, but she couldn’t say it, not even to Cicely, who deserved it.
In some ways, she wished Cicely would marry. Diana’s days would be peaceful then, without her sister’s sulks and tantrums. But Cicely could not marry Lord Bannaster. The terrible secret that bound their families together would come out, and the viscount might make his wife miserable as punishment.
And if Diana didn’t have Cicely to distract her, would she eventually become bitter over the League’s avoidance of her?
At the head table, Cicely leaned near. “Do tell me that you will wear your best gown today and avoid the tiltyard.”
“Are you not afraid I’ll steal him away from you?” Diana asked with sarcasm.
Cicely only laughed, and Diana admitted to feeling a momentary hurt beneath her resignation. Nay, she would never steal a man away from her beautiful sister. She had accepted her plain features long ago.
But still, Cicely had always been able to sneak beneath her defenses. Her appetite gone, Diana said, “I will see you at the midday meal.”
“Do be certain that the servants clear away the old rushes on the floor.”
Cicely had always left the cleaning of the castle to Diana’s management. Diana felt a little guilty for ignoring her request, but her sister deserved it.
When Tom heard the first light steps in the hall, he hated his feeling of relief and anticipation. He’d spent hours the previous evening working on the shackle at his ankle, with little to show for it but a few dents in the metal. Then he’d paced until he was exhausted before pulling the blankets about him to sleep. The dungeon cell was too large to contain the brazier’s warmth, so when he had awakened, he’d moved about briskly, loosening his stiff, cold muscles.
At last the woman came to him, and although he tensed, waiting, she was still alone. She brought a tray, a bucket of water, and another full sack. As she set the items down near the door, out of his reach, he studied her again. She wore another plain gown, not quite as coarse as a servant would normally wear. Either this was a well-to-do household, or she was more than a servant. Could she be the mistress to his mysterious captor? But would a mistress do such menial duties as caring for a prisoner? It seemed unlikely. Her speech was refined, but a woman raised as a lady’s maid could speak so.
“What am I to call you?” Tom asked.
She stared at him, as if his calm voice was foreign to her.
“Shouting at you will not help me,” he added. “And calling you ‘mistress’ seems foolish.”
“I am not permitted to give my name,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.
“This master of yours sounds far too controlling, mistress,” he said with sarcasm. “But I guess, being his ignorant captive, I should not be surprised. Even his servants aren’t permitted to acknowledge their own names.”
She pursed her lips and kept silent.
The only way Tom was going to get anywhere with her was to appeal to her sympathies, to make her comfortable with him. No more flinging himself at her like a mindless animal. He would appeal to her womanly qualities, her pity and guilt.
When she set the tray on the ground and slid it toward him, he grinned at her and slid it back.
“Mistress, you know I don’t trust that master of yours.”
She looked up at him from where she knelt on the cold floor, her eyes luminous and somber. “But I assure you that the food is—”
“If it were only you, I would take your word. But I cannot.”
She sighed and removed the linen. Several apples and wedges of cheese lay beside a loaf of bread and a crock of butter, along with a tankard of drink.
“Do you wish me to take a bite of each apple?” she asked dryly.
“Perhaps you should simply share them with me.” He spread a blanket and sat down cross-legged on the ground opposite her. “Would you like a blanket to sit upon?”
When she hesitated, he reached for one and tossed it to her. She placed it on the ground and sat upon it, her legs bent gracefully to the side. The tray was almost within easy arm’s length of each of them.
“I am only doing this because you’re insisting,” she said primly.
“Of course. You would not want me to starve.”
She took a bite of apple, arched a brow at him, and then tossed the fruit. He caught it and took a large bite from the same spot. She only frowned at him, her expression puzzled. He realized that the sexual suggestion was lost on her. She was not a man’s mistress. Ah well, he would try anything he could to sway her. While he munched his apple, she broke the round loaf of bread, slathered butter over half of it, took a wedge of cheese and an apple, then pushed the tray with everything else toward him.
“Hungry this morn?” he asked idly.
“I have not had time to eat.”
He buttered his own bread. “Your master keeps you busy.”
“A woman’s life is always busy, my lord. Did you not have a mother who kept just as busy, or were you sprung from the ground?”
A piece of bread caught in his throat as his laugh turned into a cough.
“Now I shall be forewarned about your dry sense of humor,” he finally said, smiling.
She eyed him speculatively. “You are too pleasant today, my lord.”
“What is the point of being otherwise? It will just deprive me of company that much sooner.”
“I cannot be your companion here.”
“I didn’t think you would be.” He pushed the tray back. “You forgot to taste the ale.”
She sighed, took a generous sip, and then once again sent the tray scraping across the rock floor of the cell. For several minutes they ate in silence. Rather than look demurely, meekly, at the ground, the maidservant studied him forthrightly.
“Still debating about my mother?” Tom asked. “Maybe she was a terrible person who raised a terrible son. After all, if your wise master imprisoned me, I must have done something wrong.”
“I do not know that, my lord.”
“Or perhaps I did something worth demanding money for.”
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“Not money.”
“Aha, so ’tis not a ransom he’s after.”
She blushed, and he noticed for the first time that her skin was not as pale as a lady’s, indicating that she was a servant accustomed to the sun.
She lowered the apple she’d been munching. “I have said too much,” she whispered with a disconsolate voice.
“All you’ve told me is that this is not a random demand for money. And with all this trouble, I had already assumed as much. So it is something personal between me and your master.”
She said nothing, only absently turned the apple about in her fingers. He’d pushed too hard. He was losing her, he could tell.
When she stood up, he said, “Wait, you have not told me what the bucket is for.”
She reached for it and slid it toward him. “Water, so that you can wash.”
“How thoughtful. Is this from you or your master?”
She remained silent and turned away, but not before he could see a flush of red creeping up her neck. While she removed linens and a crock of soap from her sack, he removed his leather jerkin and doublet. She tossed items toward him one at a time, not paying enough attention to realize that he was disrobing. He got her attention by deliberately juggling the soap crock until she gasped and put her hands out as if to catch it. Then she caught sight of him, garbed in his shirt and woolen breeches. He pulled the shirt off over his head, waiting for her reaction, hoping he was appealing to the deepest part of her womanhood.
Chapter 3
Staring at his nude chest, Diana felt her face flush. What an arrogant man to flaunt himself before her. Or did he have a different purpose? Perhaps he only wanted to confuse and humiliate her, to make her reveal even more than she’d already foolishly let slip.
“My lord,” she said coolly, “I am not the sort of maidservant who would bathe you.”
He grinned. “I did not even think it. I assure you that I am quite capable.” He lathered a small facecloth and began to soap his chest.
And it was a fine chest. She had been raised on the tiltyard, had seen many a man strip to the waist to wash after a strenuous day of training. But somehow this was…different. They were alone, the darkness of the earth lit only by torchlight, the air smoky and warm from the brazier. The planes of his body were…pleasantly shadowed, showing well-sculpted muscle that displayed his dedication to the knightly arts. A scattering of dark hair across his chest narrowed down his flat abdomen, and she resented where it led her gaze. His breeches were well fitting enough to outline what would normally be covered by a codpiece, and he had the broad, thick thighs of a horseman. Just looking at him made her body feel too hot to be contained by her skin. She needed to leave, to understand and permanently banish her thoughts and reactions to this man.
“I’ll give you privacy, my lord,” she said, proud of her impassive voice, even while her mind was frantically wondering why he affected her so strangely.
“I do not mean to drive you away, mistress.”
She winced, wishing she’d thought to give herself a false name. She hated how he stressed the title, even though it was truly hers. He had somehow taken control of this encounter, and she needed to get it back.
She stepped out into the corridor and brought back two saddlebags, which she placed on the floor next to the door.
He stilled, his smile fading. “Those are mine.”
“Aye, they are.”
“Give them to me…please,” he added.
She recognized the effort it took to keep his voice level. She had once again reminded him of his position here as helpless captive. Her guilt was entwined with other reckless emotions he seemed to inspire in her.
“My master instructed me to make sure there is nothing in here that you could use as a weapon.”
“He trusts you to search it?” he asked with none-too-subtle sarcasm.
She glanced at him, irritated that soap and water dripped down his chest and into the waist of his breeches, dampening it. “He does, my lord.”
“And he did not feel the need to search the bags himself.”
That was a mistake. She’d allowed her anger to get the best of her. Why did she want to annoy him by searching his belongings in front of him? She’d already emptied them out yesterday, of course, and found flamboyant garments that belonged at the king’s court. He must have come directly from London. She remembered him in the black cassock of a novice. How many years had he worn that sort of garment?
“I do not know what he did with the bags, my lord,” she said evenly. “I only know that I will feel safer going through them one last time before I allow you to have them.”
His movements were angry as he rinsed the cloth and wiped the soap from his chest. Wasn’t it too cold to be standing about wet and unclothed? She turned away from him and removed several shirts, doublets, and jerkins. His hose ranged from plain silk to multicolored stripes. She left the codpieces untouched in the bottom of a bag.
“Handle my undergarments carefully,” he said with cool amusement. “They’re delicately made.”
She didn’t look at him, knowing that even the tips of her ears were red by now. She found another money pouch, a small piece of flint and steel to start fires on his journey, and a rare book of poetry.
“That is a gift,” he said shortly.
For Cicely? Diana wondered. That was already a strike against him, for Cicely had little use for education. Her sister preferred jewels.
But Diana wasn’t going to allow Bannaster anywhere near Cicely, so it didn’t matter.
“May I have my possessions now?” he demanded.
She repacked then tossed both bags to him, and he threw them onto his pallet.
“Your wardrobe is not very practical for your current circumstances,” she said.
“It succeeds with the ladies.”
“And yet you had to travel here, in winter, to see a woman?”
He said nothing, but his eyes smoldered with rebellion as he loosened the laces of his breeches and pulled them below his waist. She saw the edge of his linen braies beneath, where bone and muscle met in his hips.
“Is this how you want me?” he asked softly. “Totally defenseless?”
For only a moment, she wanted to stay, to prove that his taunts would not affect her. And then she wanted to touch him, to see what such smooth skin felt like unadorned. To take the wet cloth and run it along his—
She turned and fled, thanking God that she was supposed to be a simple maidservant who would be shocked by his behavior. His laughter echoed, bouncing off the stone walls, almost hurting her ears as she clumsily locked the door.
The last of Tom’s forced laughter left his throat, and he began to wash more quickly, feeling that he was turning into a block of ice. Freezing was worth seeing her reaction to his near nudity. Nay, she was no mistress. He’d shocked her, but mayhap he’d helped her see him as a man rather than just a prisoner. She may have the upper hand, but he, too, knew how to get to her. He’d seen the dazed look in her eyes and felt absurdly satisfied.
But how did she know he’d come north to see a woman? What else did she and her master know about him?
Diana arrived back in her bedchamber, still chilled from the outdoors. But she’d been glad of the softly falling flakes of snow—she’d lifted her face and let them take the hot blush from her cheeks before anyone could see her. Then she removed her wax tablet from a coffer and began to compose a message to the League. It had been years since she’d used the special code they’d taught her, the way to bury her message within the wording of an innocent letter supposedly written to a friend. She practiced on the wax tablet, where she could correct her errors, and then she would eventually transfer the encoded message to parchment.
After an hour, she’d only gotten through a paragraph and was trying to figure out the best way to sound as if she hadn’t panicked with Bannaster’s approach. When someone knocked on her door, she was almost relieved. She smeared the wax tablet, knowi
ng she’d be able to rewrite the paragraph she’d figured out. She called for the person to enter.
Mary and Joan came in, both wearing worried expressions. Joan Carew was a woman with no family, who had been abused by the late viscount and had wanted to live where there were no memories of what she’d endured. Broad-shouldered and jovial, she’d never forgotten how the late viscount had abandoned his bastard children. She had insisted that one part of her duties at Kirkby Keep would be watching the children of mothers who had to work to survive.
“What is wrong?” Diana demanded, coming to her feet.
Mary and Joan exchanged a glance.
Mary said, “Lord Bannaster’s men have arrived, lookin’ for their master.”
“You don’t mean that they think he’s here.”
Wide-eyed, they both shook their heads.
Diana took a deep breath to calm herself. “I knew they would come eventually, since he was headed here in the first place. Does Cicely know?”
Joan shook her head. “She’s in the sewin’ room.”
“Working?” Diana said in surprise. “I wonder if she’s brushing up on her skills for marriage.” She sighed. “Forgive my lack of restraint where my sister is concerned. I’ll go down with you.”
“Oh, we cannot go, milady,” Mary said. “We kept far away from them. ’Twas the steward who sent me to fetch you, and I brought Joan. After all, we might recognize his lordship’s men, and they us.”
“Of course, I had forgotten. I do not think they’ll remember me.”
“Nay, milady,” Mary said with a grin. “Ye act quite different from the shy maidservant ye pretended to be six years ago.”
Diana saw the curious glance Joan sent between the two of them. Joan knew only that Diana had wanted to rescue the Bannaster maidservants from the influences of the late viscount. If the woman suspected there was more going on, she had been too grateful to question Diana.
