Norwyck's Lady

by Margo Maguire

  He would give her that. “Aye, it appears to be.”

  “My lord, have you heard aught of Master Alrick or Master Symon this morn?” Marguerite inquired.

  “I visited Alrick first thing,” Bart replied as he shook his head. “He’s no better than he was.”

  A troubled look crossed her face. “And what of Symon?”

  “He’s awake now, and in pain, but at least he’s sensible.”

  “How does his wife fare?”

  “The same,” he said. “But her neighbors were there to help.”

  Marguerite gave a quick nod, causing a luxurious lock of her hair—which she’d left uncovered—to slip over one shoulder. Bart could not help but remember how warm and alive it had felt under his hands. She was exquisitely sensitive to his touch, which would make her all the more susceptible to him when he finally took her to his bed.

  She was dressed in a simple blue gown that hid her most intriguing attributes, but made her eyes shimmer with the bright color of a spring sky. His hands fairly itched with the urge to untie the laces that held the bodice together, to hold the weight of her breasts in his hands as he’d done the previous night.

  Her nipples had come to taut peaks so quickly, and her breath had quickened with his touch. ’Twas all he’d been able to do to force himself from her chamber and down the stairs, when his body fairly screamed to remain there and join her in the bed. He could only imagine how she’d respond when he touched her even more intimately, when he joined their bodies as one.

  Marguerite continued to play absently with Eleanor, and Bart noticed that the expression in her eyes seemed thoughtful and distant. He wondered if she was thinking the same kind of thoughts as those that had plagued him all night and all through the morn.

  “Bart!” Henry said as he came into the hall. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Aye, Hal,” he said, gazing at his serious young brother.

  “May I speak with you? In your study?” he added, casting a glance toward his sister and Lady Marguerite.

  “Of course,” Bart said, reluctantly turning away from the most alluring sight in all of Norwyck. He did not doubt that the vision in blue silk would stay with him until he saw her next.

  Chapter Eleven

  She had finally begun to see. Images of some past life flitted in and out of her mind all day, but it seemed that reality intruded every time she was on the verge of remembering.

  ’Twas going to be necessary to leave the keep and everyone within it in order to concentrate enough to bring the memories back fully. She needed a quiet place, one where she would not be interrupted.

  And Marguerite felt that if she went down to the beach, the sight of the sea might help to stimulate her recollections. Yet if she left the castle walls, Bartholomew would have cause to accuse her of running away again.

  She had no choice but to tell him of her intentions. She looked for him in his study, and in several other rooms in the keep, but did not find him. Deciding he must be out of doors, she headed to the stables. She found Sir Walter there instead.

  “I would like to walk,” she told him. “But I cannot find Lord Norwyck, and I know he would not approve of me leaving the castle without an escort.”

  “You’ve got the right of that,” Walter replied with a snort.

  “Well, I was hoping…” she said. “I must get away from the castle for a while. I feel as if I might remember…something if I get away from everyone here, go down to the sea.”

  “Where Lord Norwyck found you, then?”

  “Exactly,” Marguerite replied.

  “I’ll take you, my lady,” he said. “If you’ll just wait until I’ve had a word with the stable marshal…”

  “Nay, Sir Walter, if you’ll just find a groom to accompany me, I’m sure—”

  “Please, my lady,” Walter said. “’Twould be my honor to watch over you.”

  Marguerite did not want to inconvenience the distinguished knight, but if this was the only way she would be allowed outside the castle walls, then she was content to wait. She had a feeling that all would come back to her, once she went down to the water and got close enough to smell the sea, feel the briny water upon her skin. Nay, she did not intend to wade into it, but she was certain that close proximity would help her to remember.

  Sir Walter returned from the stable wearing a heavy cloak. “Ready, my lady?”

  “If you are certain I’m not detaining you from something more—”

  “Of course not,” he said.

  “I truly appreciate your company.”

  “I know you do, lass, I can see it in your lovely eyes,” Walter answered. “And I know how your loss of memory must trouble you.”

  Marguerite blushed at his compliment and found herself surprised that he understood her predicament. Taking the knight’s arm, she walked toward a rusty old postern gate, which she assumed led to the sea.

  “Nay, my lady,” he said with a chuckle. “We must go ’round to the main sea gate. This one’s been rusted shut for an age.”

  “If only Lord Norwyck would be half as accommodating as you, Sir Walter,” she said, “we would get on twice as well.”

  Walter chuckled. “Our Bartholomew has had a rough go of it since his return from the wars.”

  “I’ve heard bits and pieces from Eleanor, but she does not have the complete story.”

  “None of us really does,” Walter said, moving steadily down the path. He gave Marguerite a supportive hand whenever the ground was rough. “I never trusted Felicia from the day she came to Norwyck, but Bart’s father insisted upon the betrothal. The lass brought a fine piece of property, and with Bart being the second son…”

  Marguerite nodded. “Property would be important.”

  “Aye. Well, they were wed but half a year when Bart and Will were summoned by the king to join him in Scotland. I’m sure the lad hoped Felicia would be with child before he left, but ’twas not to be.”

  Surprised by her reaction to the thought of another woman bearing Bartholomew’s child, Marguerite kept her thoughts to herself, leaving Walter to continue.

  “Will’s company returned from Scotland first, though Bart was right upon his heels. Anxious, he was, to get home to Felicia,” he said.

  “Eleanor said that Felicia lured William away from the castle and that the Armstrong killed him.”

  “Well, we know there was a trap,” Walter said. “And we know that ’twas Felicia who summoned Will to the hillock where he was killed by an Armstrong arrow. We did not learn that she’d played a part in the trap until she lay dying in childbed. Many truths came out that day.”

  “Oh…” Marguerite murmured.

  “Aye. You’ve heard, no doubt, that the bairn was not Bart’s.”

  She nodded.

  “The midwife swore the bairn was full to term,” he said. “Yet she delivered him a mere six months after Bart’s return from Scotland. He was stillborn.”

  Marguerite remained silent. The magnitude of Felicia’s betrayal was overwhelming, and she could only imagine what Bartholomew had felt.

  “’Twas Laird Armstrong’s son, Dùghlas, who fathered the bairn,” Walter said, “to make the betrayal complete.”

  Dùghlas Armstrong. Who was he? Someone she knew? Kin? Whoever he was, Marguerite knew that only a blackguard would seduce another man’s wife. Only a coward would lure a man’s brother to a place where he could be trapped and killed.

  “Here you go, m’lady,” Walter said somberly. “I’ll just sit here on this rock and keep watch if you care to walk.”

  “Thank you, Sir Walter,” she replied with a meager smile. “I’ll not go far.”

  “Just mind the surf,” he said. “And keep your cloak pulled up about your neck. The storm hasn’t yet passed. We’re likely to get more rain.”

  Marguerite nodded and walked down to the water. The waves were strong, and she stayed clear of them, stopping to close her eyes and inhale deeply of the sea air as the wind whipped the edge
s of her cloak.

  Caitir Armstrong. What had she to do with Bartholomew’s Armstrong enemy? For certainly ’twas no coincidence that this name was familiar to Marguerite. Who was Caitir?

  And why did the name Armstrong strike such a familiar chord in her? Did she know Lachann…Dùghlas? Could she have known such despicable men and not remember them?

  She turned and walked down the beach, staying within Walter’s line of vision as she walked south. The crashing waves were familiar, frightening. Was this how it had been when her ship had gone down? Cold and stormy, with massive waves threatening at every moment?

  She stopped and closed her eyes, willing the memory to return, terrifying though it was.

  The vision of a lantern swaying precariously came to her. ’Twas hanging over the deck of her ship as it pitched violently in the storm. Thunder crashed and lightning flashed through the endless sky, and Marguerite could almost feel herself falling. The bruised scrape on her shin burned with the memory.

  Men were all around, throwing ropes, holding on to rails. Yet naught could keep the ship from going down.

  A man called to her. “Marie!”

  “Alain!” she called back. “Je ne peux plus m’acerocher!”

  Alain. The man was Alain, and she had cried out to him in French. Was he…could he possibly be her husband, when her heart and soul seemed so filled with Bartholomew?

  Shocked by the admission of Bartholomew’s effect on her, Marguerite tucked her head down and resumed walking again. She had to remember more than this. Mayhap thoughts of the child, Cosette, would help. Bringing the little blond girl’s face to mind, Marguerite tried to remember everything about her.

  She was young…mayhap no more than two or three years old, with bright yellow curls and freckles across her nose. A happy child, Marguerite thought, for in her memory, the girl was always smiling. She…

  Marie. Marguerite stopped cold. The man, Alain, had called her Marie. She swallowed hard. Was that who she was? A Frenchwoman who happened to—

  Genevieve. Gaspar.

  The names came to her too fast, too abruptly, causing Marguerite to lose her balance and stumble. Quickly regaining her footing, she walked on, oblivious to the wind and the crashing waves.

  Five people, their names familiar yet so distant, swirled through her mind as she walked. Marguerite desperately tried to make her recollections mean something. Clearly, these people were significant to her, else she would not have their faces and their names blazed upon her mind. The children—

  “Where are you going?” A harsh voice assailed her.

  Bartholomew grabbed her arm and turned her to face him, but Marguerite was speechless.

  “You left an old man sitting out in the cold, waiting for you, watching over you while you satisfied your whim—”

  “’Twas not a whim!” she cried, pulling away from him. “I had a purpose in coming h—”

  “To meet with the Armstrong?”

  In one rapid motion, she brought her hand up to slap his face, but he caught her wrist before she could make contact.

  “How dare you insinuate that I’m no better than Felicia!”

  “You—”

  “Aye, I know of her perfidy, her adultery,” she snapped. “Everyone speaks of Norwyck’s whoring wife.”

  Bartholomew dropped her wrist as if he’d been stung by a fistful of nettles. Narrowing his eyes, he might have spoken had Marguerite given him a chance.

  “I have naught in common with your late wife, Bartholomew,” she said over the wind. “Nor did I somehow coerce Sir Walter into walking here with me. I…I—”

  Abruptly, she turned away before the tears that burned the back of her eyes had a chance to fall. Storming off on her southward path, she wiped her eyes and followed the shoreline, struggling to channel her thoughts back to the memories.

  But ’twas no use. Her concentration was broken. Bartholomew had ruined it for her.

  Clenching his jaws so tightly, ’twas a wonder Bart did not break a tooth. As he watched her run away, his blood boiled and his skin burned in spite of the cold bite of the air. There had been few times in his life when he’d been this angry. And it seemed that ’twas his destiny of late, to be so affected by the females in his life.

  When she was naught but a dark spot against the turbulent sky, he turned away and stalked back toward the sea gate. Marguerite was a dark spot in his brain, too, he thought angrily, never doing or saying what he expected, making him wrong more times than he cared to count.

  Had he been mistaken about Sir Walter accompanying her? Bart hated to admit ’twas likely so. If Walter had discovered her coming to the beach alone, he would have followed her, at the very least, whether she had asked him or not.

  Bart kicked a weed out of his way and continued up the path, but a loud clap of thunder startled him, stopping him in his tracks.

  He turned and looked down the beach, but Marguerite had followed the curve of the land and was out of sight. The wind blew harder, carrying sand, making Bart’s eyes tear, taking his breath away. The storm would soon be upon them. He wondered if Marguerite would realize she should seek shelter.

  Without thinking, he reversed his direction and trotted back to the beach. He’d been wrong about her before, and ’twas possible he’d mistaken her purpose again today. Though he felt no more inclined to trust her than he had a week ago, he did not wish to see her injured in the storm. She could be blown out to sea, or a tree could fall. Mayhap even lightning—

  He ran across the sand, following Marguerite’s path. She could not have gotten too far ahead in such a short time, so he might be able to catch up with her before the rain came. Lightning slashed the sky above the sea, and as the thunder crashed, Bart could see the storm moving toward the shore. He whipped his cloak behind him and broke into a run.

  Following the curve of the shore, he finally caught sight of her, still running on the sand. He was beyond the castle wall now, and naught but dense forest lay from this point south. If she kept on going, where would they find shelter?

  He narrowed the distance between them as lightning struck ever closer. Huge, sparse drops of rain began to fall, and Bart knew that ’twould not be long before they were caught in a downpour.

  “Marguerite!” he shouted above the din of the waves, the wind, the thunder.

  Her steps faltered and she turned, slowing when she saw him. A multitude of emotions crossed her face.

  “Stop!” he said, his anger forgotten for the moment. “Marguerite, stop running! We’ve got to find cover!”

  He caught up to her and took her arm, then headed toward the forest, which lay inland, beyond the beach. He could only hope they would remain safe and relatively dry among the trees. “Come on.”

  The wind tore at their cloaks and the rain hit hard as they ran through a rocky area sparsely covered with low shrubs. Quickly they made their way into the trees, following a path that was partially overgrown with vines and weeds. Holding Marguerite’s hand, Bart led them deeper into the forest with the hope that he would spot a stand of close-growing trees that would provide some cover.

  “Over here!” he said.

  Lightning struck nearby, and Marguerite cried out in fear. Bart gripped her hand more firmly and kept going. What little light there was had dwindled with the onslaught of the storm, making it difficult to look for adequate shelter. Besides, Bart had not explored this territory in years, not since his travels to Scotland with King Edward.

  A moment later, he tripped over something. He could not tell whether ’twas rocks or a log, but the shadows were deeper here, and they were sheltered from the wind. Another crack of lightning showed him that they stood beside a broken-down hut. He pushed on the door, knocking it off its hinges, and ushered Marguerite inside.

  “What is this place?”

  “I don’t kn—” he began. Then he looked ’round. “It must be old Jakin’s hut.”

  Only a small portion of the roof was intact, and two of the walls wer
e caved in. Still, enough of the structure was left to protect them from the worst of the storm raging ’round them. Bart lifted the broken door and propped it against the rotting lintel, and hoped it would hold against the wind.

  “Who is old Jakin?” Marguerite asked, shivering.

  Bart opened his cloak and, without removing it, enclosed her within its warmth, bringing them into contact from shoulder to knee. “He was an old recluse. My father gave him leave to fish and trap small game down here.”

  “W-why would he not live in the village?” she asked, her teeth chattering, her body shuddering with cold.

  He felt her hands go around his waist and knew she only intended to steady herself and glean some of his warmth.

  “He was not quite right in his mind,” Bart replied, vaguely remembering the odd old fellow, but much more preoccupied with Marguerite’s proximity. He slid his arms ’round her and pulled her even closer. “The old man had no family, and as I recall, he used to mutter to himself all the time, and shout strange things. No one wanted him near.”

  “Mmm,” was her reply. “’Tis sad.”

  “I suppose it might have been, except that he did not care for anyone’s company, either.”

  Bart inhaled deeply and smelled the rain in her hair. Somehow, he’d known she would find Jakin’s tale a sad one. She possessed an unusual compassion.

  Lightning struck nearby and with the thunder came an earsplitting crash.

  Bart moved them into a more secure corner of the hut.

  “What was that?” she whimpered.

  “The lightning must have hit a tree nearby.”

  Arousal, hot and thick, struck him deeply, just like the broadside of a sword. When she sighed, ’twas as if all that had transpired in the last hour had led to this. He felt regret for his harsh words and wished he’d thought before speaking.

  He pressed his lips to her forehead and moved his hands down her back. He could barely see her in the shadows of the hut, yet when she tipped her head, he could see an expression of doubt and wonder in her eyes. She trembled once, and made a tentative movement of her hands at his waist.