Norwyck's Lady

by Margo Maguire

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bart stood at the door of the solar and watched the familiar sight of Marguerite as she plucked a few notes and hummed. Apparently unsatisfied with the sound she produced, she tried again, changing the notes to her satisfaction.

  Her head was bent over the psaltery as she played, and though he could not see her face, he knew there would be a fine crease between her delicately arched brows as she worked to make her song perfect. He’d seen the look before, when she worked on one thing or another.

  He’d also seen the looks of mirth, of sorrow and of pleasure upon her face. And he admired each one.

  He had recently come to ponder what would happen when she remembered her name and where she belonged. He questioned whether she would leave Norwyck, leave him.

  Naught at Norwyck would be the same when she was gone.

  He quickly girded his heart against any such tender feelings. There was no place for them in his life, and he had long since decided to keep Marguerite relegated to his bed, and nowhere else. Tenderness—or love, the kind of which the bards and minstrels sang—had no bearing on his life, and he meant to keep it that way.

  ’Twas most difficult to keep his resolve during the night, when she huddled against him for warmth, and he pulled her close, wrapping his arms about her, entwining his legs with hers. But he was more asleep than awake then, and not accountable for his actions or his wayward emotions.

  “My lord!” she said, looking up from the psaltery and noticing him for the first time. “You startled me.”

  “’Twas not my intention.” His voice sounded colder than he intended, too.

  “’Tis early,” Marguerite said. She set the psaltery on the floor next to her. “I did not think you’d be back so soon.”

  “Hal and John are still on the practice field,” he said, walking toward her. “My sisters are with Sir Walter in the stable, looking at the new foal.”

  “Aye, ’tis quiet in the keep.”

  “Have you any plans with my sisters for this afternoon?”

  “Nay,” she said, looking up at him quizzically.

  “Take a ride with me,” he said, holding his hand out to her. “Down the beach. The day is fine. ’Twill be one of the last before winter takes hold.”

  She stood. “That would be—”

  Before his eyes, she lost all her color and began to fall, but he caught her up in his arms before she could hit the floor. He placed her carefully upon the settle and rubbed her hands. When she did not regain consciousness, he tapped her pale cheeks, then rubbed her hands and arms again.

  In spite of his resolve to feel no tenderness toward her, he was filled with alarm when she did not respond, and was about to call for a footman to hasten into the village for Alice when Marguerite’s eyes fluttered open.

  “What…?”

  “You fainted,” he said. Frowning, he jabbed his fingers through his hair. Then he touched her forehead, her cheeks, her hands.

  “That’s absurd, my lord,” she said, moving to sit up. “I have never fainted.”

  “How would you know?” he scoffed. The woman had no memory, so ’twas impossible for her to know whether she’d ever fainted.

  “I—I’m just not the type,” she said defiantly. “I’d know it if I were.”

  “Stay still a moment, Marguerite,” he said. Her sudden infirmity rattled him. She might deny that she’d fainted, but he’d seen her go down with his own eyes. There was no mistake.

  “I just arose too quickly, my lord,” she said. “And I…I missed the noon meal. I’m hungry.”

  “If that’s all ’tis…”

  She sat up. “I assure you, Bartholomew,” she said, “I am fine. Just feed me, and take me for that ride.”

  She took his hand and stood, more slowly this time, and walked out of the solar with him. She appeared to be all right, though it shocked him to think of Marguerite succumbing to some illness. There was still too little color in her cheeks, but she moved along with her usual vigor.

  He tried to shrug off his worry. Mayhap ’twas merely hunger that had caused her to faint. Or mayhap he’d been keeping her from sufficient sleep every night.

  Whatever the cause, he would keep a close eye upon her until he was certain naught was amiss.

  They went to the kitchen, where Bart directed the cook to prepare a meal for Marguerite. When it was ready, he carried it to his study. They sat together on a low settle beside the fire, where Bart insisted she eat all that was there.

  “I am not an invalid, my lord,” she said irritably. “I can feed myself.”

  Her manner intrigued him. He had seen her short-tempered only once before, yet today she had not only fainted, but was somewhat surly. Her color had come back, and she was even more beautiful than ever, with a glow about her that he could not attribute to the bright sunlight shining in through the tall, narrow windows.

  “Please do not take offense at my asking,” he said in good humor, “but do you feel well enough to ride?”

  “Aye,” she replied haughtily. “I feel perfect.

  Mairi had not been outside the castle walls in ages, and Bartholomew could not have chosen a better day to take her riding. Though the weather was chilly, there was no wind, and the sun shone brightly over a fairly calm sea.

  She rode atop Pegasus, in the space between Bartholomew’s legs. She knew she’d been an absolute termagant after the fainting episode, but had been shocked and frightened by her powerlessness. What if this pregnancy incapacitated her? She had already decided not to tell Bartholomew—at least not until he noticed the changes in her body and she would have no choice but to confess.

  Because a pregnant mistress would be useless to him.

  She’d heard with her own ears that he had no intention of marrying again, and she was certain he would not care to wed the nameless survivor of a shipwreck. Nay, if he ever married, ’twould be for the purpose of increasing his estates. Not to give a poor bastard child a name.

  She leaned her back against his chest and forced all dismal thoughts from her mind. ’Twas a beautiful day and she delighted in the freedom she felt upon the back of Bartholomew’s mighty warhorse. She felt adventurous, even reckless, as they rode down to the sand.

  “Shall we return to old Jakin’s hut?” Bart asked huskily.

  His hot breath made her tingle, and the thought of returning to the broken-down cottage excited her. But she was still feeling contrary. Perverse.

  “Nay, my lord,” she said playfully, turning so that he could hear her. “I want to see something new.”

  With movements of his body, Bartholomew gave Pegasus his head, and soon they were galloping up the broad, flat beach, with the water on their right. Tall grasses grew on their left, and Norwyck’s massive walls rose starkly beyond. The tower loomed high above it, and Mairi could see its windows glistening in the sunlight. ’Twas where she often stood and looked out at the sea that had claimed Alain’s life.

  Bart tightened his arms around her and leaned slightly forward, urging Pegasus on. They rode even faster, and Mairi laughed with delight. The sand and water seemed to go on forever, and when Bartholomew finally slowed Peg near a rocky rise, Mairi wondered if they still stood upon Norwyck land.

  She tipped her head up to ask him, but he swallowed her question with a kiss. Suddenly releasing her, he swung down from Pegasus’s back and reached up for her. He lifted her down, keeping her pinned against the horse. Then he kissed her again, teasing her mouth with his teeth, his tongue.

  Mairi slid her arms up his chest to his most sensitive points and was rewarded by his sharp intake of breath. Brazenly, she skimmed one hand down, exploring the edge of his tunic, finding his braes, closing her hand over him….

  He moaned. And allowed her to stroke him only twice before he grabbed her hand and put it back upon his chest.

  Gratified by her success, and anxious to tease him some more, she broke away and started to run through the grass at the edge of the beach, laughing.

/>   Bartholomew had not expected this, so she had a good head start before he came after her. Once he started running, his long legs tore up the sand and he caught up to her quickly. She was out of breath when he grabbed her from behind and gently pulled her to the ground, breaking her fall with his own body.

  She found herself lying atop him and laughing in his puzzled face. She pressed against his fully aroused body, and delighted in her effect upon him.

  “Marguerite…”

  Her laughter stopped as she looked into his eyes, so rich and brown. Cherishing the moment, she smoothed his hair away from his forehead, and another dark lock from where it was trapped upon the dark stubble on his chin.

  Then she leaned down and kissed him. She felt full and wonderful and so very alive at this moment, with the knowledge that she carried his bairn within her.

  “’Tis a shame,” she whispered playfully, “that the weather is too cold for further intimacy, my lord.”

  He shook off his dazed expression and grinned wickedly. “So you think, my lady,” he said. He eased her off him and came to his feet, then pulled her up beside him. In silence, he led her to a grouping of boulders in the grass, and lay his cloak upon the ground next to one of them. Then he sat upon it, with his back against the large rock.

  “Come,” he said. “Sit.”

  She began to kneel beside him, but he guided her to his lap, so that she straddled him. His mouth caught hers in a searing kiss, and he slipped his hands under her skirts.

  Mairi quickly realized what he intended when she felt his hands working at his laces. He lifted her slightly, and when she came down again, they were joined. A sound of pleasure escaped her, and she began to move. Bart’s eyes closed and his head fell back.

  “Marguerite…” he whispered.

  “Aye, my lord,” she said fervently, never letting up.

  If he discovered her pregnancy tomorrow and sent her away, at least she would have today.

  Bartholomew walked across the bailey toward the practice field. For the first time in his memory, he’d been reluctant to leave his bed.

  ’Twas nearly dawn, and Marguerite remained in their room in the tower, sleeping soundly. With good reason.

  Bart breathed deeply. Even now he could smell her alluring scent, feel her silk-soft skin under his rough hands. Her sighs of pleasure were fresh in his ears.

  She had been insatiable last night. Their playful interlude on the beach the previous afternoon had led to even more hours of inventive, exhilarating lovemaking in the tower. And he still felt as if he’d not had enough of her.

  Would he ever?

  Was there a way to bind her to him forever?

  He did not care to admit it, but he felt about Marguerite as he’d never felt for another. She was honest and true. Without memory, she was entirely guileless. Since arriving at Norwyck, she had not had the freedom to leave the estate or to engage in any plot, the way Felicia had done.

  Even so, Bart felt in his bones that she was naught but honorable and virtuous, and would be so even if she knew her name. Every word she spoke, every action she took attested to her honor. She had charmed John, had taken away Kathryn’s brittle edge and was managing Eleanor better than anyone yet. Even Henry respected her.

  Sir Walter wanted Bart to marry her. The old man nagged him about it at every opportunity. Walter thought he could shame Bart into marriage, by calling Marguerite Norwyck’s whore.

  Well, the old knight might just have succeeded.

  “My lord,” said Sir Duncan, Norwyck’s sergeant-at-arms.

  Bart abandoned his thoughts and stopped to listen.

  “There are reports in the village of stolen cattle.”

  “Confirmed?”

  “Sir Walter is in the village now, with the reeve, and they’re questioning the men.”

  “We’ll ride out as soon as your company and Sir Stephan’s are ready,” Bart said. All had been quiet for weeks. There had been no sign of any offense against Norwyck, and Bartholomew had been concerned. Now he knew why.

  They reached the stable, where Pegasus was already saddled and waiting. Bart mounted. “Have the men arm themselves for battle, but leave a large garrison here to defend the castle. I’ll meet you at the west gate.”

  He glanced up at the tower and saw movement at the window. ’Twas Marguerite. She wore something plain and white, but her hair was loose and curled over one breast. From such a distance, he could not discern much, but he saw that her hand was pressed against the glass.

  An odd sensation welled in his chest, as if his lungs had turned into overfilled waterskins. He raised his hand as if to touch hers. Taking a deep breath, he gave a slight bow, then turned Pegasus and urged the horse through the lower bailey, to the gate.

  The connection he felt between them was nothing short of remarkable. ’Twas as if an invisible cord bound them together, hearts, minds and souls. Upon his return to the keep, he would see how Marguerite felt about marriage.

  A crowd of men had gathered around Sir Walter and Reeve Edwin Gayte, and they all spoke at once. They were angry and upset over the loss of their livestock. When Bart arrived, all grew silent.

  He remained mounted. “Sir Walter,” he said. “What is your assessment?”

  “My lord, from all accounts, several cattle and quite a number of sheep are missing from our southern fields.”

  A muscle in Bart’s jaw tightened involuntarily. “How many?”

  “Eight cows, my lord,” Gayte said. “Twelve sheep.”

  “So far…” Walter added. “Several of the village men have not yet returned to report.”

  “A garrison will remain here to protect Norwyck while we’re gone,” Bart said. “I leave Sir Walter in charge.”

  Clearly, Armstrong knew where Norwyck was most vulnerable. The cattle were necessary for milk and cheese, but loss of the sheep meant loss of their valuable wool. A wall around the village would not protect the livestock, therefore Bart had no alternative but to show his superiority in battle. He had many more knights in his service now than Armstrong could ever hope to command. Lachann would have to think twice before assaulting Norwyck again, in any way.

  Companies of mounted knights arrived in the village, and Bart dug his heels into Pegasus’s sides, leading them past the unfinished wall.

  He headed down into the valley, toward Braemar.

  The sun had risen fully by the time they reached the lower dell, and here was where the Norwyck men found their butchered livestock. Ten cows in all. Fourteen sheep. Each with an arrow in its chest.

  Bart felt sickened. The Armstrong bastards had not even bothered to take the wool or the meat. ’Twas merely an exercise to them, killing these animals, an arrogant method of showing contempt for Norwyck.

  Bart did not know what made the Armstrong hate Norwyck so, but he would not allow this latest offense to stand. He had hoped a superior defense would show their enemy the futility of his attacks, but Bart’s strategy had failed. Feeling more angry than he ever had, he rallied the men behind him and headed for Braemar Keep, with every intention of engaging Armstrong in battle. Since Norwyck had never attacked the Scotsman in his keep, the action would be unexpected. Besides, the Armstrong knights would be weary after their night’s cowardly work, and Norwyck would have the advantage.

  They rode hard for an hour, then stopped to water and rest the horses. When they resumed, ’twas yet another hour before they reached the base of the well-treed hillock below Braemar. His men halted behind him, staying under cover of the woods.

  “My lord?” Sir Stephan asked.

  Scotsmen with swords, along with archers, patrolled around Braemar Keep. Bedraggled cottages dotted the hillside below, making an attack impossible without involving women and children.

  Much of the ground at the base of the hill was boggy and unsuitable for riding, at least for an army of horses. All things considered, a direct attack upon the keep was out of the question.

  “They expect us,” Bart said. “Se
nd a few men to scout the land below the keep. But take care. There may be Armstrongs lying in wait.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Stephan murmured.

  “Duncan,” Bart said. “The rest of the men should remain hidden here, but in readiness in case of attack.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Deep in thought, Bart walked Pegasus deeper into the wood. He tied his horse, then began to pace as he considered his plan.

  Clearly, ’twould not be possible to win a battle today. He had many knights at his disposal, and the possibility of even more reinforcements if he chose to call for assistance. But with only the fifty men he had on hand today, he could not attack Braemar and come away the victor. Armstrong had far more men than Bartholomew would have guessed.

  Nay, he would know Armstrong’s weaknesses first, then firm up a plan that had already begun to take shape in his mind. In the meantime, he would do all that was necessary to protect the people and livestock of Norwyck.

  And he would spend another night in Marguerite’s arms before he went into battle.

  Chapter Twenty

  Mairi’s lie weighed heavily upon her. She had come to share such a close intimacy with Bartholomew that her omission of the truth seemed even more grievous.

  Mayhap she ought to tell him she was Lachann Armstrong’s daughter, the consequences be damned.

  She looked down at the courtyard far below and saw Bartholomew, sitting so proud and tall upon Pegasus. She knew what Norwyck meant to him, and how the betrayals of the past had affected him. She understood the depth of his hatred of the Armstrongs.

  Could he possibly overlook her name? Would he show her the same kindness and consideration once he knew she was Lachann’s daughter? Was there some way to ensure that he would understand she had not deceived him from the first?

  Mairi did not doubt that he felt a fondness for her, but did not know if ’twould be enough to overcome the profound antipathy he felt for her sire.

  And she did not know if she was brave enough to find out.

  A tap at the door made her step away from the window. “Enter,” she said.