Norwyck's Lady

by Margo Maguire

  “Yes, please,” Marguerite said. The friendliness of the child continued to surprise her, especially after her brother’s antagonistic behavior, and Marguerite felt fortunate that there was at least one gracious person at Norwyck Keep. She did not know if she’d ever needed a friend before, but ’twas clear she needed one now.

  Bart took a long swallow of ale as he stood by the fire in the great hall. He’d finished removing his armor, but still wore the soaked and stained undertunic and hose he’d had on all through the night of battle. The rain had not let up, and still there were bodies lined up under a tarp on the beach. Huge piles of debris as well as valuables were under guard down by the sea, and a half-blind woman with no memory lay wounded in his tower.

  If she could be believed.

  He doubted it. He had to give her credit for a gifted imagination, though. Who would ever have thought of such a ploy? A lost memory.

  He shook his head and laughed grimly. She would not be able to keep up the farce for long. ’Twas likely her ship was a Scottish one, and she was afraid to admit her identity.

  Bart turned when he heard footsteps approaching. ’Twas young Kathryn, who seemed to suffer most after William’s death, and from what she understood of Felicia’s betrayal.

  “Bartholomew,” she said, her expression grave. “Eleanor is in the tower room.”

  “I told her to stay out—”

  “Yes, but does she ever listen to anyone?” Kathryn asked disdainfully. She tossed her long blond braid behind her, then followed her brother as he crossed the hall and started up the stairs. “She will not mind me, but goes about, doing as she pleases.”

  “She’s young, Kate,” Bart said, trying to rouse an interest in his sister’s concerns. Yet the only thing he cared about was that Ellie was in the woman’s room. The stranger could be a Scottish assassin, for all he knew. Odder things had happened in recent months, and Bart was not about to take a chance with Eleanor’s safety.

  He reached the tower room and threw open the door.

  “Bartie!” Eleanor cried.

  “What did I tell you about coming up here?” he demanded.

  The woman slipped back under the blankets, while Ellie crossed her arms and slammed them down over her chest. Annoyance colored the glance she threw at Kathryn, even as her red curls quivered with anger. “I was just helping Lady Marguerite—”

  “Ah, she has a name, has she?”

  “Nay. We just gave her the queen’s name,” Ellie replied. “To use until she remembers her own.”

  He looked over at “Marguerite.” Her lips were pressed tightly together, and from the rapid rise and fall of the covers on the bed, he could tell she was breathing heavily.

  “You two leave,” he said, “and I’ll help Lady Marguerite.”

  “But, Bartie—”

  “No arguments, or you’ll dine on bread and water for a week,” he said menacingly, though ’twas a familiar warning. Bart threatened Eleanor so often that it had become something of a jest between them.

  “Lady Marguerite needs my help!”

  “I’m afraid she will have to do without it,” Bart said as he glanced toward the beautiful lady in the bed. “This time, she will have to be satisfied with mine.”

  Chapter Three

  Marguerite had barely pulled the soft chemise over her head when her chamber door had burst open and Lord Norwyck had stormed in.

  She shifted under the covers and pulled the flimsy cloth down over her legs. This way, at least, she did not feel quite so vulnerable.

  “Lady Marguerite, eh?”

  “Eleanor suggested it, since I still cannot remember my own name.”

  “Shall we call you ‘your highness’, or will ‘my lady’ do?”

  “Are you always so caustic, my lord?” she asked haughtily, “or do I have the sole pleasure of evoking your ire?”

  “Liars always have that effect upon me,” he replied, “even beautiful ones.”

  Marguerite wished she could see his features clearly. She could only tell that he was tall and broad shouldered, and his hair was dark. His voice was deep and resonant, his accent pleasant, and there was a softness to his tone when he spoke to his sisters.

  ’Twas distinctly harsh when he spoke to her.

  A bright flash of light from within seared her eyes. Closing them tightly, she flinched with the pain. Nausea roiled in her belly and she swallowed repeatedly, unwilling to embarrass herself before Lord Norwyck.

  “God’s bones, woman,” he said, plucking a bowl from the table near her bed, “haven’t you got the sense to seek a basin when you—”

  She turned and retched into it, barely conscious of his hand upon her shoulder, gently pulling her over. She did not think it possible to feel any worse, and still live.

  She fell back and suppressed a groan. Suddenly, a cool cloth was upon her lips, then soothing her brow. Tears seeped from her eyes.

  He remained silent, and if not for his touch, Marguerite would not have known he was there. She did not want to feel any comfort from this stern, unyielding man, yet the warmth of his hand on her chilled flesh sent shivers through her. Mayhap he was not as grim as he wanted her to think.

  “I’ll send a maid up to sit with you,” Lord Norwyck said. His voice was devoid of emotion, and Marguerite was glad she had shown none, either. She was sure those tears had only been the result of her violent retching, not because of the fear or helplessness she felt. She did not really need his presence or any reassurance from him to know she would survive.

  When she heard his footsteps retreating, and the sound of the chamber door closing, Marguerite nearly convinced herself she felt relieved.

  Weary after the long night of battle and chase, Bartholomew left Marguerite in the tower and returned to the great hall.

  ’Twas insanity to allow her appearance of vulnerability to affect him. She was just a woman, clearly a deceitful one at that. Bart knew all about falling for a dishonest woman. ’Twas not something that would ever happen again.

  He crossed the hall and made his way to the study, a warm and cheerful chamber at the southeast corner of the hall.

  “My lord.” Sir Walter Gray stood as Bartholomew entered the room.

  “Don’t get up, Sir Walter.” The white-haired knight was as weary as any of the men who’d fought all night.

  Walter had lived at Norwyck more than thirty years, serving as steward for Bartholomew’s father. He was something of a revered uncle to the Holton sons, and had helped to manage estate matters after their father’s death, while Will and Bart were fighting in Scotland. Sir Walter was Bartholomew’s most trusted advisor. “The last of the men have returned from their northern foray.”

  “Any luck cornering Lachann or his son?” Bart asked as he dropped into a chair across from the older man.

  The old knight shook his head. “They gave chase all the way to Armstrong land, but were rebuffed by archers when they approached the keep.”

  “Did we lose any men?”

  “Not this time.”

  “There must be some way to take Braemar Keep along with the Armstrong and his bastard son.”

  “If there is, we have yet to find it,” Walter said. “’Tis always well guarded by the best Scottish archers.”

  Bart made a rude sound.

  “There is naught more to do today, my lord. Why don’t you seek your bed now, and rest? Armstrong is not so much a fool as to attack two nights running.”

  “You wouldn’t think so,” Bart said as he got to his feet. “But his methods have been unconventional these last few years.”

  “To say the least, my lord,” Walter replied.

  Bart knew the man blamed himself for not seeing through Felicia’s deception. After all, Armstrong’s son, Dùghlas, had seduced and impregnated her while Walter had been in charge of the estate. But Bartholomew did not blame him. Felicia’s affair had been conducted in secret while Walter managed the estate and the children. It might even have begun before Bartholomew
had left for Scotland.

  “Still, I cannot believe the scoundrel will come back tonight,” Walter added.

  “You may be right, but I do not trust the Armstrong to behave reasonably or predictably,” Bart said as he rubbed his hand across his jaw and his morning whiskers.

  Against all convention, Laird Armstrong had corrupted Felicia. He’d set his son, Dùghlas, to seduce her. Then he’d somehow convinced her to deliver William into his trap without so much as a sword being drawn. The man was as devious as a freebooter. “See that guards are posted at every gate,” Bart said. “I want sentries in the hills north of the village. If the Armstrongs come again, we’ll need ample warning.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Walter said, “I’ll see to it.”

  “I’m going to sleep for a couple of hours,” he said, then he stopped and turned back to Walter. “Send someone for Alice Hoget later. I’d like her to look in on the lady in the tower…while I am present.”

  Walter frowned. “Is aught amiss, my lord?”

  “I do not know,” Bart replied. “The woman says she cannot remember anything…naught of her past, not even her name.”

  When Walter did not respond, Bartholomew continued. “I want Alice’s opinion. I want to know whether such a thing is possible.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Walter replied. “’Tis passing strange, though not unheard of. Alice will be here when you awaken.”

  Unpleasant dreams plagued Marguerite’s afternoon nap, and she awoke unrefreshed. She supposed the images in her dream must mean something, but she could not imagine what. The faces, the places…all were unfamiliar to her.

  The worst parts of the dream had awakened her. She’d felt as if she were drowning, as if her very life was being squeezed out of her. She’d sat up in a panic, her heart pounding, her head aching. Yet still she could remember naught of her past.

  The door to her chamber opened suddenly, and a wizened old woman appeared. Gazing at her, Marguerite realized then that her vision had improved significantly. She could see the old lady almost clearly.

  “Well, yer looking better than ye did last time I saw ye.”

  “You know me, then?” Marguerite cried hopefully, placing a hand over her heart as if she could quiet its hopeful patter.

  “Nay, m’lady,” the woman replied. “The only time I’ve ever seen ye was when ye were lying here in this bed, insensible. I’m Alice Hoget. I’m the healer in these parts, but mind ye, I’m no surgeon.”

  “Oh.” Marguerite’s shoulders slumped and tears filled her eyes. She had hoped—perhaps unreasonably—for a ready answer to all her questions. But ’twas not to be. She blinked back the tears and sniffed before she noticed a tall, dark figure standing in the doorway behind Alice.

  Her heart sank when she realized ’twas Lord Norwyck.

  Now that she could see more clearly, she was struck by his handsome features, even though they were mitigated by a thoroughly bad-tempered expression.

  His eyes were dark, nearly black, and shadowed by thick, dark brows. He was possessed of a strong chin and jaw, the muscles of which even now clenched in disapproval of her. His lips were full, yet sculpted, his nose straight and aristocratic. His black hair brushed his shoulders.

  There was no softness to his features, yet Marguerite had experienced his kindness, no matter how gruffly it had been cloaked.

  “Lord Norwyck says ye’ve lost yer memory.”

  Unable to find her voice at the moment, Marguerite nodded.

  “Can ye remember aught?”

  “Only a few faces, bits of a storm,” she said. Her voice was shaky and she struggled to control it. “’Tis a strange sensation to…to feel that there is a memory there, but be unable to bring it out.”

  “Aye, it must be,” the old woman said. “But I’ve heard of it—this malady of memory loss.”

  “You have?” Marguerite cried, in spite of Lord Norwyck’s approach. “Will it pass? Will I soon remem—?”

  “Hold, lass,” Alice said. “I cannot tell ye. I know too little of it. Lie back, though, and let me look at the gash on yer poor skull.”

  Marguerite did as she was told, suddenly aware of her lack of proper dress. She slid down into the bed, quickly pulling the blanket up to her shoulders.

  “Lord Norwyck says yer eyes aren’t right, neither.”

  “That’s right, but my vision has improved since I awoke this afternoon,” Marguerite said, striving to ignore the lord’s looming presence. “’Tis still not entirely clear, but much better than ’twas.”

  “That’s a good sign, then,” the healer said. “I expect yer memory will return soon, too.”

  “Oh, Alice, do you think so?” Marguerite said, grasping the old woman’s hand in her own.

  “Well, I can’t be sure,” Alice replied, “but I’d say there’s hope, at least.”

  “That’s all I’ve prayed for,” Marguerite said quietly.

  Alice extricated her hand from Marguerite’s and patted her shoulder. She turned to Lord Norwyck, who stood just behind her. “Naught more can I do, m’lord,” she said. “I’ll be happy to come if there’s any change, but I expect these scrapes and gashes to be healed within the fortnight.”

  “And her memory?”

  “No promises there, m’lord,” Alice said with a smile. “’Tis up to the good Lord to restore it.”

  Bart followed the old healer to the door and partway down the stairs. “What do you make of her?”

  “In what way, m’lord?”

  “Do you think she speaks the truth?”

  “Ye mean, about her memory?” Alice asked. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. She seems sincere enough, and I’d hate to think of one so fair as a liar….” She hesitated, and Bart knew she thought of Felicia. “But I have no way of knowing.”

  Bartholomew had to agree. The woman seemed ingenuous enough, but the most accomplished liars were capable of fooling anyone. He returned to the tower room and found the lady out of bed.

  “Oh!” she cried, whirling away from the long, narrow window that overlooked the beach and the sea beyond. “I did not realize…”

  “Realize what?” She was unbelievably beautiful, Bart mused, with her lush hair cascading around her shoulders and her lovely eyes focused upon him. Her body was covered in a filmy silk chemise, but it clung to her, somehow making her more alluring than if she’d been naked.

  “Realize th-that you would be coming back.”

  “Making it necessary to continue with your little sport?”

  “My s-sport, my lord?”

  Bart had to admit she was fairly convincing. ’Twas no wonder old Alice had been taken in by her pretty face, her woeful tale. Hardening his heart against any sympathy he might feel, he approached her.

  “Tell me what you recall of the storm and the ship you were on.”

  “Naught, my lord,” she said. “But I dreamed while I slept this afternoon. That I was drowning.”

  Which revealed exactly nothing. Bart gazed into those pale green eyes and sought the truth. She appeared to be naught but a guileless maiden, yet he knew better than to trust appearances. His innocent Felicia had duped not only him, but William and Sir Walter, as well.

  “That’s all?” he asked coolly.

  “Nay,” she replied. “I saw faces…the same faces that appear in my mind sometimes while I’m awake. Yet I have no idea who they are.”

  “Very convenient for you.”

  “I—I do not understand why you should mistrust me so, my lord,” she said, clearly unnerved by his proximity. He moved even closer. He would frighten the truth out of her if necessary. “I have naught to gain by feigning this malady.”

  “Nay?” he said as he closed the distance between them. “Then you have no allegiance to Laird Armstrong or his ally, Carmag MacEwen?” he asked quietly. His face was a mere breath away from hers. Another inch and his chest would touch her breast.

  “These names mean naught to me,” she whispered.

  He was close enou
gh to kiss her, and every muscle and sinew of his body urged him to abandon his questions and do so. He tipped his head and leaned forward, intent upon tasting her. His eyelids lowered slightly.

  The chamber door burst open with a crash, spilling argumentative children into the room. Bartholomew raised his head and, with a calm he did not feel, turned to look at the intruders, his young siblings.

  “Eleanor. Kate,” he said, enunciating each name carefully. He crossed his arms over his chest and willed his pulse to slow as Eleanor ran to him. “What is the purpose of this intrusion?”

  “She does not mind me, Bartholomew,” Kathryn began. She cast a scathing look at her sister, who now clung to Bart’s legs.

  “I tried to stop them, Bart,” John said sheepishly. “I never intended for them to bring their argument all the way up here.”

  “Where is your nurse?” Bart asked.

  “We have no need of a nurse, Bartholomew!” Kate declared, placing her hands upon her hips. She had become a rigid little tyrant in the past few months, often resorting to tears when she did not get her way. Bart had hoped she would ease back into childhood, now that the worst seemed to be in the past, but it was clear he would have to deal with her.

  Yet how would he go about it? She might have recovered from the death of their father, but for Felicia and William to have followed within the year—well, ’twas too much for the child.

  “Ellie,” he said, turning his sister loose from his legs. “Can you not listen to Kate when she speaks to you?”

  “Nay, Bartie! I don’t want to!”

  Obviously. “Eleanor, Kathryn has only your—”

  “She is a bully!” Ellie cried. “She thinks she is Mama, or Papa, but she’s not!”

  Kathryn screeched and lunged for Eleanor, but John held her back. Bartholomew pushed Eleanor behind him.

  “Kate, I will see you in the nursery momentarily,” he said, averse to continuing such a display before Marguerite. “John, will you see that she gets there?”

  “Aye,” John replied, his voice sounding odd.