Norwyck's Lady

by Margo Maguire

  “’Tis naught, my lord,” she said, working her way to the horse’s rump.

  Bartholomew’s dark eyes pierced her. “You laughed,” he said. “I would know what has caused you such mirth.”

  Marguerite felt her skin heat at her foolishness. She did not want Bartholomew to think she’d been laughing at him. “I thought it amusing that your horse gets more kind attention than most people do, my lord.”

  “Is that all?” he said, looking at her curiously. “You envy Peg his currying?”

  Marguerite felt herself smile. “Nay, my lord. Of course not.”

  Bartholomew was quiet, and seemed lost in thought as he finished with his horse. He put the saddle and the rest of the equipment away, then took Marguerite’s arm and walked out of the stable. His body was hard and tense beside her, and Marguerite wondered if he would kiss her again.

  They walked silently, and when they entered the keep, Bartholomew stopped and faced her at the foot of the stairs.

  ’Twas nearly dark in the hall, and Bartholomew’s rich, deep voice penetrated the deepest recesses of Marguerite’s resistance. “Rest well, my lady,” he said quietly.

  She stood speechless, wanting no more than for him to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless, to carry her up to the tower and do exactly what his eyes threatened, every time he looked at her.

  Instead, he made a slight bow and turned away. Within seconds, he was swallowed up in the darkness of the hall, leaving Marguerite feeling alone and bereft.

  Restraining the urge to call out to him, she pivoted, picked up a candle and made her way up the solid stone steps to the tower. As usual, Rose had already stoked the fire in her chamber and turned her bed down. Still, though the room was warm and cozy, ’twas lonely up here, away from even the possibility of companionship.

  Pulling the laces from her gown, Marguerite dispensed with it, sighing as she sat down on the padded bench near the washstand. A distant rumble of thunder drew her attention to the windows, as did the sight of lightning flashing in the distant sky and the sound of the wind whipping around the tower.

  The storm was still far out at sea, and Marguerite felt no threat from it. At least not yet. She told herself that this tower had stood for many a year, through many a storm. ’Twould withstand this one, too.

  Still, she felt restless, unnerved. She had to figure out where she belonged, for ’twas certain she could not remain here at Norwyck Castle with Bartholomew Holton much longer. She stood again and paced the length of the tower room and back. She had tried forcing herself to remember, but that had served no purpose other than to frustrate her.

  The faces of the blond children came to her often, but never long enough for her to discern their features, or to recall their names. One of them, a little girl was…was—

  A name came to her. Cosette! The smallest one was Cosette!

  Marguerite sat back down on the bench and pressed one hand to her chest, covering her pounding heart. She’d been right. Cosette was a French name, so she must have come from France. That was it! She’d been on a voyage from France to England when the ship had gone down and she’d nearly been lost. She’d been with a light-haired man named…named…

  She let out a breath in frustration. Why couldn’t she remember any more?

  She concentrated on Cosette. Bringing the little girl’s face to mind again, Marguerite wistfully remembered the child’s carefree smile. She could practically hear her voice, sweetly singing a simple French song.

  Besides her memory of Cosette, there was nothing else.

  Marguerite did not know how long she sat trying to retrieve her lost memories, but eventually she brushed away tears of frustration and turned to face the small mirror above her washstand. Removing the combs from her hair, she shook her head until her long tresses fell about her shoulders and down her back.

  ’Twas no use thinking about Cosette or the man on the ship. She did not even recognize her own face in the mirror. Marguerite knew there was no way to force the memories—heaven knew she’d tried often enough, to no avail. She picked up her comb and began working the tines through her hair while she changed the direction of her thoughts.

  Master Symon came to mind immediately—his plight, and that of his family. She hoped his leg would heal well, and that he’d be able to return to wor—

  A sound startled her and she dropped her comb and turned.

  Bartholomew stood in the shadows of the doorway.

  He did not speak, but moved toward her, his steps slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers.

  Gently touching one of her shoulders, he turned her toward the mirror once more, then picked up her comb and began to run it through her hair. By the second stroke, the feeling was so delicious, Marguerite closed her eyes and tipped her head slightly forward. After each stroke, his hand caressed her, from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck, becoming more bold each time.

  He slid one hand under the edge of her chemise and slipped it off her shoulder, leaving it bare to his touch, his kiss.

  Chapter Ten

  Marguerite’s eyes flew open when he touched his lips to her warm, flushed skin, and she saw her reflection, along with Bartholomew’s. He glanced up just then and met her eyes as he lowered the chemise from her other shoulder.

  It slipped as they both watched.

  Only the upper slopes of her breasts were bared, and though Marguerite knew she should not allow Bartholomew to touch her this way, or to see her so unclothed, she was powerless to stop him when he began to knead her shoulders.

  Her head fell back as his thumbs exerted pressure on the most sensitive points of her spine, as his hands compressed the muscles of her bare shoulders and back. He worked his strange enchantment, and succeeded in making Marguerite groan with pleasure.

  His hands slid up and cupped her upper arms, lowering the chemise beyond decency. “You are so very beautiful,” he breathed.

  Marguerite swallowed, watching his reflection in the glass. His eyes dropped from where they held hers, darkening when his gaze lit on her naked breasts. His hands slid lower, until he cupped their fullness. Marguerite’s breath caught in her throat as his thumbs gently teased the engorged peaks.

  Thunder sounded, much closer to the castle, but neither of them noticed. Bartholomew touched her shoulder with his lips, then moved his mouth to her neck. Marguerite shivered when she heard his low growl. Her head fell back once more and her eyes drifted closed.

  “So soft…”

  His arms were suddenly behind and underneath her, and he was lifting her off the bench, carrying her to the bed. He tipped his head and captured her mouth with his own, searing her with his kiss.

  Ever so gently, he placed her in the bed. Desperate for his touch, Marguerite reached for him, but Bartholomew evaded her, leaning over to pull the blankets up to her chin.

  “Rest well, my lady,” he said, brushing one finger across the sensitive skin below her eye. “When I come to your bed, you must be well rested. I will demand much of you.”

  The storm continued all night and into the morning hours, though ’twas not the reason for Marguerite’s fitful sleep. Bartholomew was the cause.

  His effect on her was a powerful one.

  The room was chilly as Marguerite slipped out of bed. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and went to stoke the fire before dressing for the day. ’Twas still raining, and the day was bleak, yet when she looked out the window facing Norwyck’s practice field and saw Bartholomew in his hauberk, the day took on an entirely different appearance.

  He was easily the tallest among his men, and surely the strongest, though she knew those hands and arms could be gentle, too. She felt a flush of heat on her cheeks, recalling how he’d kissed her, touched her and spoken to her before laying her in her bed.

  It should never have happened, but Marguerite was powerless against Bartholomew’s advances. Besides the incredible attraction between them, her regard for him grew with all that she learned of him
. His camaraderie with his knights, his concern for Master Symon and the other injured men, his deep love for his young siblings—these things only drew her closer to him.

  As for his distrust of her, Marguerite could understand it, now that she knew of his late wife’s treachery. No man would find it easy to trust another woman after what Felicia had done. For all his size and power, he was just a man, vulnerable to the pain inflicted upon him by those he loved most.

  When Bartholomew left the field, Marguerite turned away from the window. She washed and dressed, then went down to the great hall. Only a few servants were there, and the main table was empty of all but a few candlesticks. Marguerite realized she must have arisen late.

  “Have you seen Lady Eleanor?” she asked the servant, Rose, who swept cold embers from the hearth.

  “Nay, my lady,” the girl replied. “No one’s been about for quite some time…except for Lady Kathryn. She went that way.”

  Following the direction of the girl’s outstretched arm, Marguerite crossed the hall and turned into a dark corridor. There were several chambers here, if all the closed doors were any indication. Marguerite stopped and listened, not at all sure that she wanted to find Kathryn. The child was prickly at best, and had no interest in any kind of friendship with her.

  Still, Kathryn might have Eleanor with her, and Marguerite had promised Bartholomew she would take over the supervision of the youngest Holton.

  As Marguerite stood quietly, she heard the faint sounds of music. Well, ’twas not exactly music, for the sounds were discordant and unpleasant. Yet they were made with a musical instrument—a gittern, if she was not mistaken.

  Curious, she walked along the corridor, listening, then found the place from which the music came. Quietly opening the door to a chamber full of windows, Marguerite saw Kathryn sitting on a window seat, her attention completely centered upon the gittern in her hands.

  She attempted to play several notes, then a chord. None of the sounds could be called music.

  Marguerite moved back behind the door and knocked, then stepped in. Kathryn looked up, clearly embarrassed to have been caught secretly playing her mother’s gittern.

  “Good morn to you, Kathryn,” Marguerite said. “I’m looking for Eleanor. Have you seen her?”

  “N-nay,” Kathryn said as she set the gittern aside and stepped away from it.

  Marguerite glanced at the instrument and then back at Kathryn. She thought the girl might have fled the room if she had not been blocking the doorway. “There is a psaltery in the trunk in the tower room,” she said. “Did your mother play that, too?”

  Kathryn kept her eyes down. “She played anything with strings.”

  “Ah, then she was truly gifted,” Marguerite said, walking toward her. “I would know more of your mother.”

  Kathryn’s eyes flitted up to Marguerite’s, then skit-tered away again. She backed up to the window seat. “There is naught to tell. She died the year before my father, and…”

  “And?” Marguerite said gently.

  “And…she had started to teach me to play the gittern b-before she became ill.”

  Marguerite did not know what she hoped to accomplish, but she came even closer and said, “Tell me more of her. Did she sing?”

  Kathryn swallowed. “Aye,” she said quietly. Then she looked defiantly at Marguerite. “I’ve never heard anyone who could play as well or sing as sweetly as my mother.”

  Marguerite ignored the thinly veiled insult, taking the child’s words for what they were—an expression of her grief over losing her mother. Marguerite could imagine how it had been for Kathryn after Lady Norwyck’s death. She’d had two brothers away in Scotland at the time, two older brothers who were mere adolescents, and one very small sister. ’Twas likely her father had had little insight into his daughter’s sorrow.

  “Tell me about her,” Marguerite said, sitting down across from the window seat. “I imagine she was very beautiful.”

  “Aye, she was!” Kathryn replied, taking her place again. She picked up the gittern as she spoke, absently holding the neck and touching the strings. “And she let me walk with her everywhere, when she planned meals with Cook, when she looked over stores with the pantler.”

  As she remembered her mother, Kathryn’s eyes became distant and wistful, and Marguerite wondered if she’d done the right thing in encouraging the girl to evoke her sad memories.

  There was naught to do now but listen, and Marguerite gave Kathryn her full attention. The thought of having such painful memories frightened her. What if she eventually discovered that she’d lost her husband when her ship sank? What if those three children were, indeed, her own? Where were they now? Would she ever see them again?

  Caitir Armstrong. The name suddenly came to her as Kathryn spoke, but Marguerite could make no more of it. Why would she know of an Armstrong woman? Why on earth would that name come into her head?

  “…and she p-promised to teach me to play her gittern,” Kathryn said, “before she d-died.”

  Marguerite blinked her eyes several times to shake herself out of her strange reverie and pay attention to the young girl before her, the child who needed her attention so desperately. “Well, I…I doubt I have the talent your mother had, Kathryn,” she said, “but I would be honored show you a few chords.”

  When Kathryn made no reply, Marguerite crouched before her and moved the girl’s fingers so that they rested above the correct strings. “Now, press down,” she said.

  Kathryn did so.

  “Take your right hand and strum,” Marguerite said.

  Kathryn ran her fingers lightly across the strings and a harmonic sound emanated from the instrument. Marguerite gave a few more instructions on the positioning of the fingers, and Kathryn strummed again. Once she’d mastered that chord, Marguerite showed her another, and another. Soon Kathryn was able to strum a simple song.

  Kathryn avoided looking up at her, and Marguerite sensed that the girl’s pride would be the most difficult obstacle to overcome in dealing with her. ’Twould never do to move too fast with her.

  “You learn quickly,” Marguerite said as she stood up and stepped away. She was certain there was a limit to Kathryn’s tolerance, and she did not want to push her past it. “Your mama would have been proud of you.”

  Kathryn did not respond, but kept her eyes down and continued to practice what she’d learned, while Marguerite went to the door. “Be careful not to make your fingertips too sore. ’Twill take time for them to grow accustomed to pressing on the strings.”

  When Kathryn did not even acknowledge her words, Marguerite slipped out of the chamber and into the corridor, where Eleanor caught sight of her and charged away from Nurse Ada like an overgrown puppy. The poor nurse was clearly out of her element with the spirited child.

  “Lady Marguerite!” Eleanor called from the far end, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  Bart washed the mud from his body and dressed in a clean tunic. And never stopped thinking of the sight of Marguerite giving Kathryn instruction on playing the stringed instrument.

  He could hardly credit that Marguerite had gotten Kathryn to allow her so close. His sister had been prickly and difficult ever since his return from Scotland, and he had hardly known how to deal with her. His only hope had been to marry her off early.

  Bart had happened upon Kathryn and Marguerite in his study just now, but had remained quiet, preferring to observe their interaction unnoticed. He was still amazed.

  Marguerite was a thoroughly uncommon woman. He could not imagine Felicia or any other lady having the patience to endure Kathryn’s vexatious temperament, nor did he think his wife had been particularly tolerant of his other siblings.

  She had certainly never abided his touch the way Marguerite had the night before.

  Thinking of Marguerite’s response, Bart found his body reacting just as it had when he’d touched her. His blood burned for her. His flesh ached. No amount of swordplay on the practice field
had been able to dispel the image of her sensual gaze as he’d caressed her naked breasts, and it tortured him.

  No woman had ever looked at him that way.

  As he tied the laces of his tunic, he vowed never again to be blinded by lust, as he’d been with Felicia. Marguerite was beautiful and passionate, and he would take her to bed. But he would never put any trust in her, nor would he ever give her aught but pleasure.

  And when she figured out where she belonged—if, indeed, she truly did not know—he would send her off with no regrets, no demands. ’Twas the only way.

  In the meantime, he would send letters to several neighboring lords and see if he could find a place for Henry to foster. The lad was a bit old to begin, but there were a few men whose estates were not far, who might be inclined to take on a boy of Henry’s age. Feeling more settled now, Bart left his chamber and went to the great hall.

  Eleanor was there with Marguerite, and the two were playing some foolish game with string as they sat on the floor before the fire.

  “Bartie!” Eleanor called out as she saw him.

  He crossed the hall and joined them. Marguerite kept her eyes on the string, which had somehow bound Eleanor’s hands together in an intricate pattern. Then she used both hands to pull the string off Ellie’s hands and onto her own.

  Only then did she look up at him.

  “Look what Lady Marguerite taught me!”

  “I see,” Bart said. “And how did Lady Marguerite manage to remember such a complex game?”

  Marguerite shrugged, as if to deny that his words had any effect upon her, but the tightening of her lips told him otherwise.

  Mayhap ’twould serve his purpose to keep his caustic remarks to himself. After all, he only wanted to bed her. What did he care who she was or where she belonged, or whether she intentionally kept that information from him?

  “Bartie, I don’t care how she remembered,” Eleanor protested. “’Tis the best diversion from the rain.”