Norwyck's Lady

by Margo Maguire

  “Of course, Kathryn,” Mairi said quietly. “Your brother knows and appreciates how much you do.”

  But Kathryn’s expression was shuttered and mistrustful. Mairi put one hand on the child’s sleeve, but Kate shook it off and ran from the solar, leaving Mairi staring after her.

  Very little was right with the world. Sad and discouraged, Mairi sat down again and folded her hands in her lap. She uttered a silent prayer for Kathryn, a troubled child who clearly suffered still from the recent events that had torn her family apart. Mairi blinked back tears as she prayed for Alain, whose loss would be devastating to Caitir and her children.

  And she prayed for herself, that God would understand and forgive her continued deception.

  The solar door opened and Bartholomew strode in. His face was drawn and angry.

  Mairi composed herself quickly and stood. “My lord, what is it?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “’Tis Alrick. I just received word that he died a short while ago.”

  Tears filled Mairi’s eyes again, and the back of her throat burned. She covered her mouth with her fingertips.

  Bartholomew clasped his hands behind his back and strode several paces away, while Mairi struggled to control her grief. Her emotions were so raw, now that she knew of Alain’s fate.

  “The accident at the wall was caused by my bailiff,” Bartholomew said.

  “How, my lord?” she asked with as steady a voice as she could manage. ’Twas one thing to show a bit of sorrow for a poor peasant who’d lost his life. ’Twas entirely unsuitable for a lady to grieve overmuch.

  Bart turned back and walked toward Mairi. “With weak mortar. The fool thought he would save on supplies if he had the men add more water to it.”

  Mairi sniffed and brushed away her tears. “But surely he—”

  “He was a fool. Sir Walter gave him clear instructions, but he took it upon himself not to follow them.”

  “I am sorry, my lord,” she said, placing a hand upon his forearm. “I know it must be difficult for you.”

  His caring and compassion had been obvious from the first, but especially after the wall had collapsed and he’d done so much for the men who had fallen or been otherwise injured.

  “This kind of loss is no more difficult for me than for any other nobleman,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I dislike losing any of my people to such an unnecessary—”

  She raised herself up on her toes and lightly kissed his lips before he could say more. “You must tell Eleanor, my lord,” she said, surprised by her own action. “Alrick was a favorite of hers, and she will be sorely distressed by the news.”

  “Aye,” he said, taking her hand.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bart noted the lines of sorrow on Marguerite’s face and knew that she was much too tenderhearted. She should not be so affected by the death of a man she hardly knew.

  Or had the loss of her innocence affected her so? Was that why she seemed so raw, so vulnerable? How could any man know what went through the minds of women?

  She comforted Eleanor, who had been granted a reprieve from her punishment, and Bart was glad of her help. Now if only Marguerite could have some effect upon Kathryn. The girl had been stubborn and difficult ever since William’s death, and Bart had not known what to do, other than allow her to play at being chatelaine like her mother before her.

  He hoped she would grow tired of the game sometime before Henry married and brought a wife home to Norwyck.

  Marguerite dined with the family that evening, and later played the psaltery while everyone gathered near her—all but Kathryn, who sat in a far corner, sewing. And she was present only because Bart had prevailed upon her to join them.

  Everyone but Kathryn and Henry sang with the music. Even the servants who cleared away the remains of the meal joined in as they worked.

  Henry left his chair and came to crouch beside Bartholomew’s side while Sir Walter looked on. “Did you send out the letters, Bart?” he asked.

  “Aye, Henry,” he replied with a sigh as the music continued. “We should know within a few weeks whose squire you’ll be…though you could remain at Norwyck and be my squire.”

  Henry frowned. “Nay, Bart,” he said. “That would never do. ’Tis best to go away from home to foster with a lord who is not kin. ’Tis what you and Will did.”

  Bart could not argue, though he did not like it. All the generations of Holtons had done it, just like every other noble family.

  John made a jest that made Eleanor laugh, gave Kathryn a smile in spite of herself and momentarily softened the sad expression in Marguerite’s eyes. For a moment, Bart was touched by tenderness for the woman and her strong compassion.

  But he squelched it quickly. ’Twould not do to entertain more than a basic courtesy toward her. Not when her identity was still a mystery, and not until he understood her purpose in returning the valuable Norwyck jewels. He knew what treachery women were capable of, and he had not yet figured out Marguerite’s.

  She was his mistress—no more and no less.

  When the hour grew late, Nurse Ada came to take Eleanor and Kathryn to bed. Bart noticed that Kathryn was not pleased with the arrangement, but said naught. She followed along just as she did every night, and when the boys dispersed, Marguerite was left alone in the hall with him.

  She was nervous.

  Bart suppressed a smile when she picked up the psaltery and started toward the staircase. He took the instrument from her and placed one hand at the small of her back, urging her up the stairs.

  He had every intention of sharing her bed again tonight, and though the thought of forcing himself upon a woman was entirely abhorrent, he knew ’twould not be necessary. For each time he’d encountered her that day Marguerite had responded to his touch, his kiss, as if her hunger matched his own.

  He followed her to the first landing, where he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her so that her back was pressed against him. He splayed his fingers across her abdomen and nuzzled her neck.

  Arousal hit him now with full force. ’Twas all he could do to keep from throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her to the nearest bed and ravishing her like some Norse barbarian. But he would not.

  Setting the psaltery on the stone floor, Bart turned her in his arms, took her candle and placed it on a low table, then kissed her. She made a small sound that echoed his craving, and opened her lips to his moist caress.

  A deep shudder wracked Bart and he pulled her body closer. He moved his head to change the angle of the kiss, and slipped his hand down her back to pull her against the strength of his arousal.

  He gave silent thanks for whatever instinct made her move against him, torturing him, yet driving him to a level of need that he had never before thought possible. Without breaking the contact of their mouths, he backed her against the wall and continued his sensuous onslaught.

  “Your chamber again, my sweet? Or mine?” he murmured, nipping at her ear.

  Marguerite’s breath caught on a sigh.

  “So be it,” Bart said. “Yours.” He took her hand, picked up the candle and led the way up the stairs, cursing the distance as they went.

  A loud crash stopped them before they reached the tower steps.

  “What was that, my lord?” Marguerite asked.

  “It came from the nursery.” Still holding her hand, Bart turned and hurriedly walked to the children’s room.

  Eleanor stood in tears next to her bed, clinging to Nurse Ada, whose face was pinched and white. Kathryn stood with her arms crossed over her chest. A clay pot lay shattered in pieces on the floor. There was no doubt in Bart’s mind that she had thrown it.

  He only hoped she had not aimed it at her sister or the nurse.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, in a voice that was calmer than he felt.

  Eleanor sniffled loudly, but the nurse kept silent.

  “I threw it,” Kathryn said defiantly. “I threw the pot at the wall and smashed
it.”

  Bart stepped over the broken shards and went to Kathryn. Her face was covered in tears and her chin quivered, though she gave no other sign of weeping. “Why, Kate?” Bart asked gently. “What purpose did this serve?”

  “I do not need a nurse, and I do not want to sleep in the nursery!” she cried.

  “All right…” Bart said tentatively. He looked at Nurse Ada for some clue of how to proceed, but the woman’s expression was one of shock and disdain. He glanced back at Marguerite, whose open, compassionate face gave him courage. “Where would you like to sleep?” he asked Kathryn.

  “I’ll have the chamber that Mama and Papa shared.”

  “I have no objection, Kate,” he said, “but you must realize this is a wholly inappropriate—”

  “You are not my papa, Bart,” she thundered. “My papa is dead!”

  Bart did not know what to do. The child was irrational, and clearly had no intention of listening to reason.

  “Aye, Kate,” a soft, feminine voice behind him said. “And you’ve taken care of your brothers and your sister just as your mama and papa would have wanted.”

  Marguerite stepped over the broken pot and gingerly approached Kathryn, whose protruding lower lip quivered.

  “You have done it better than your mama could have imagined,” Marguerite said quietly. “No family could have had better attention than what you provided, Kathryn, especially after William died. And Felicia.”

  Bart watch as Marguerite reached Kathryn and gathered her into her arms. Kate dissolved into tears then, weeping freely and loudly.

  “I hate her!” she cried. “I hate her!”

  “Aye, sweetheart,” Marguerite said, rubbing Kathryn’s back. Tears streamed from Marguerite’s eyes, too, and again Bart felt entirely helpless. “’Tis awful to be so betrayed.”

  “She was my sister, my friend!” Kate wept, and finally Bart understood.

  Young Kate had lost her mother nearly four years before. When Felicia had come to Norwyck soon thereafter, Kathryn had taken to her like a sad-eyed puppy. ’Twas no wonder Kate had been so difficult these last months. She had anxiously awaited the return of her elder brothers, and lived for the moment she would become an aunt. For Felicia to have violated her trust so profoundly…

  Bart frowned and shook his head as he watched Marguerite comfort Kate. Would the damage Felicia had inflicted never end?

  He stepped over to Eleanor and lifted her into his arms, then carried her out of the chamber, and motioned Nurse Ada to follow. He closed the door and left Marguerite alone to do as she would with Kathryn.

  Kathryn’s weeping had finally subsided, her tears had finally dried. She slept.

  She lay on the bed in the nursery, with Mairi’s arms around her. The girl so desperately needed someone to understand the pain she’d kept hidden for so long!

  Mairi pulled a blanket over them against the chill of the room and closed her eyes. Mayhap ’twas her own pain that made her understand Kathryn’s.

  Somehow, she would have to get through the days knowing that her selfish delay in returning to Scotland had made it necessary for Alain to travel with her. If she had sailed months ago with Carmag MacEwen, Alain would still be in France where he belonged, with his wife and children.

  Yet if she had sailed last spring, she would not have been caught in the storm and would never have known Bartholomew Holton. She would already be wed to Carmag, mayhap even have grown big with his child.

  Mairi shuddered.

  Even if it meant she would never see Caitir again, Mairi knew she could not allow her father to learn of her presence here at Norwyck. For she knew how important ’twas to Lachann Armstrong that his daughter wed the MacEwen ally.

  And Mairi knew she could never do that. The man was an abomination to her.

  When Carmag had come for her, months before, he had managed to get her alone one afternoon. Mairi remembered her split lip, her blackened eye, and the bruises Carmag had left upon her thighs before Alain and his brother had managed to subdue the Scottish brute.

  Alain had promised to let Lachann know of his horrible treatment of her, but Carmag had laughed at the Frenchman’s naiveté. Lachann did not care whom his daughter wed, as long as the marriage sealed the Armstrong’s powerful alliance.

  Carmag, that savage oaf of a man, might do as he wished with his betrothed. With impunity.

  Mairi shuddered again. She gently combed her fingers through Kathryn’s fine, blond hair and held her as she would have one of Caitir’s children. Many were the times when one or another of them had needed comforting, and they’d often come to Tante Mairi for it.

  Bartholomew’s sister needed a friend. She needed patience and understanding, and Mairi was determined to be the one to give it. For she had all the time in the world.

  She would remain here at Norwyck as Lady Marguerite, and would never let Lachann Armstrong know she was alive.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Will you come with me to the village this morning, Kathryn?” Mairi asked.

  Kathryn had been quiet and reserved all morning, and Mairi could not tell if the child was embarrassed by the incident of the night before, or if she had just reverted to her former, unfriendly demeanor.

  “I’ll come!” Eleanor cried.

  “Hush, pest,” Henry said as he lowered his cup to the table. “She didn’t ask you.”

  “Of course you may come, Eleanor,” Mairi said. “’Tis well and good for the ladies of the castle to visit the injured and spread the lord’s largesse among the people.”

  “I’ll come,” Kathryn said.

  “Good,” Mairi replied. “Mayhap you will help me gather the goods that will be needed in village.”

  An hour later, Marguerite and the girls, and several heavily laden footmen, descended the steps of the keep. Sir Walter was at the base of the stairs.

  “Good morn, my lovely ladies,” he said with a bow. “What have we here?”

  “Mostly food, Sir Walter,” Eleanor said, hugging the older man’s legs. “For the village!”

  Walter patted Eleanor’s red curls and looked up at Mairi. She thought she saw approval in his eyes, and suddenly felt self-conscious. She also felt like a liar.

  “Ah, well, ’tis the right thing to do,” he said. He gave them a wink and went past them, climbing the stairs.

  They walked through the baileys and out the main castle gate, making their way toward the cottages of the injured men. Stopping at each home, they dropped off foodstuffs and visited for a short while. When they reached the cottage of Alrick Stickle, they stayed awhile, helping to sew the dead man’s shroud.

  Eventually, they reached Symon Michaelson’s cottage. They found Anne still distraught and having difficulty coping. Symon was more awake than he’d been when Mairi had last seen him, though he was pale and sweating, and sometimes moaning with pain.

  The two older boys were out near the wall, doing what they could to help pile the rocks that had fallen.

  Eleanor went outside to play with two of Symon’s daughters, while Kathryn remained in the cottage with Mairi and helped with the smaller children. With so many of the children gone, the cottage seemed much more spacious, and Mairi was pleased to see Kathryn pitch right in with the chores that needed to be done.

  “Good morn to ye,” Alice Hoget said as she pushed the cottage door open and strode in. “And how is Master Symon this fine day?”

  The healer walked to the injured man’s bedside and set her satchel down. She placed her hand upon Symon’s forehead and gave a shake of her head. “’Tis fever ye’ve got, Symon, and I’m going to do what I can to bring it down.”

  “Do what ye must,” he rasped.

  “Annie, I’ll need hot water and a few clean cloths.”

  Given a specific task to do, Symon’s wife stirred herself and did as she was instructed.

  “M’lady,” Alice said to Mairi, “why don’t you and the young lass take the little ones out for a bit o’ fresh air?”


  Mairi thought that was a very good idea, so she and Kathryn put on their cloaks, bundled up the three youngest children and took them outside.

  “Shall we walk to the wall?” Mairi asked as she took the two-year-old by the hand and held the infant up to her shoulder. Kathryn agreed, taking charge of the little boy who was slightly older than Mairi’s two, and who needed chasing.

  Kathryn had said naught about her outburst the night before, nor did she remark upon Mairi’s support all through the night. Yet the girl was changed. There had been a softening in her.

  “Lady Marguerite!” Eleanor called. “Where are you going?”

  “For a walk to the wall,” Mairi replied. “Do you want to come?”

  “Nay! We’re playing here. May I stay?”

  “Aye,” Mairi replied, taking note of a few mothers who were watching over the children. “But you’ll find us at the wall if you want us.”

  She and Kathryn turned and followed the path toward the wall. They had not gone far when they heard the sound of horses behind them.

  Bartholomew was at the head of a garrison of knights riding single file. His beautiful horse was covered in Norwyck’s blue and white, and Bartholomew himself was fully garbed in mail, with his sword at his side.

  He was tall and proud in the saddle, and as handsome as any man had the right to be, Mairi thought. His dark eyes flashed and he pulled to the side of the lane when he saw her, motioning for his men to go on.

  He dismounted beside Mairi.

  “Is aught a-amiss, my lord?” she asked, in spite of her unease. She had not seen him since she had succumbed to his lovemaking on the stair, and she did not know what to expect now. Would he take her in his arms and kiss her here, in front of his sister and the villagers?

  Mairi was well aware that her behavior required no better of him. She had allowed him into her bed, and into her heart…and she was determined to perpetuate her lie.

  Bartholomew shook his head, keeping his eyes upon hers. “Nay. ’Tis only a patrol. I merely take my turn with the rest.”