Pierre nearly flew onto Starlight’s back. If Celeste didn’t feel so giddy, she would have laughed at the sight. As it was, the desire to sleep stole over her. She snuggled deeper into her cloak. Guy’s arm tightened about her. Mon Dieu! I am in the arms of Saint Michael himself. In her half-wakeful state, she wondered if Black Devil would suddenly take to the air and they would fly up to heaven.
“Be off with you, Brother Guy, and take care you don’t drop her.” Gaston whacked his hand against Devil’s glistening rump, and the horse sprang into a canter.
Guy cushioned Celeste against the sudden acceleration. She opened her eyes, squinting into the wind and rain that slapped her face. The brown-and-orange landscape blurred in her vision. Lowering her head again, she closed her eyes and concentrated on maintaining her balance. Somewhere close beside them, she heard Pierre’s enthusiastic shouts. That boy would laugh all the way through the gates of hell.
Celeste had no idea how long or how far they rode. She might have dozed off, though afterward she could not recall sleeping. The great stallion seemed to fly over rocks and hillocks. Then Black Devil drew to a halt, and many hands reached up to help her down. Voices, all speaking at once, babbled around her. She could make out Pierre’s above the rest, for he alone spoke French, but she couldn’t quite understand what he said. Then a soft blackness enveloped her, and she was, at long last, warm—very warm.
When Celeste next opened her eyes, she thought for a moment she was back with the Foxmores. The room looked similar, though not as lavishly furnished. As she shook the sleep from her mind, she saw through an opening in the bed curtains that the walls of this room were made of a gray stone covered with large, bright tapestries. She remembered that Burke Crest’s walls were paneled in carved wood.
Celeste pulled herself into a sitting position. The room tilted at a sickening angle. She thought for a moment that she might faint, but slowly everything settled into its rightful place and her vision sharpened. A bright fire danced in the stone hearth. Candles burned both on the chimneypiece and on the table by her bed. Looking about her, Celeste wondered where the people were. Dimly she heard noises from beyond the closed door, but she herself was alone.
“Hey-ho!” she called out, though not very loudly. Her throat scratched like a rusted nail in a doorframe. Celeste sank back against the pillows and stared up at the canopy overhead. A pleasant scene of silver stars and golden suns danced across an expanse of dark blue velvet.
Perhaps this is Snape Castle. The thought did not bring her the comfort it should. Celeste drew the coverlet under her chin as she awaited an answer to her summons. She frowned at herself. She should be glad if her journey was over, and yet ...
What if Brother Guy had already left and was on his way back south, to Saint Hugh’s? Not that she would blame him. The trip had not been to his liking, and no doubt he wished to return to the priory before winter caught him.
What if I never see him again? A sob threatened. Pah! What was the matter with her? Brother Guy was a monk, and not the least bit interested in young brides-to-be. Speaking of brides-to-be, if this was indeed Snape, then her bridegroom must be nearby.
Celeste clutched the covers. Silly goose, she scolded herself. There is nothing to be afraid of. Walter Ormond is your loving husband—or will be soon. He will protect you now. Won’t he? Her aunt’s horrible description of the wedding night returned to her. Then the half memory of Guy’s embrace pushed that frightening thought aside.
Such a broad, strong chest Guy had! How tightly he had held her, his arm just under her breasts. Beneath the covers, Celeste’s nipples tightened as she recalled how very close his arm had been to them. And his thighs! For shame! It is indecent to think of a man’s thighs, especially those of a monk!
But what strong firm thighs he had! Celeste remembered quite distinctly how her legs had rested atop of his as they rode. Ma foi! With his robe hitched high, his legs had been naked, while her skirts had been pulled up past her knees. Sweet Saint Anne! Aunt Marguerite would have whipped Celeste soundly if she knew ... Knew what?
A flush, not fever-induced, spread across her cheeks. I have never been that close to a man—any man—in all my life. The feeling, she had to admit, had been wonderful—what she remembered of it. And now Brother Guy was gone? Without a goodbye and a Godspeed?
“Hey-ho!” she called again, forcing a louder sound out of her raspy throat. Why didn’t someone heed her? Could she be a prisoner in an ivy-covered tower?
Celeste recalled the illustration in her book of the Lady Sweet Grace looking out the narrow window of a high tower guarded by the evil personage of Denial. How sad the lady seemed as she waited for her Knight of the Loyal Heart to rescue her!
Celeste struggled upright and again waited for her giddiness to subside. If she was a prisoner, then Brother Guy and poor Pierre must be, as well. She must escape from this room and set them free. No doubt they would lock Guy in a deep dungeon, because of his imposing strength and size. Celeste paused in her imaginings as she again recalled his strong arms around her. A flutter deep within her responded.
The door latch rattled, then opened. Celeste drew back against the pillows. Best not to let her captors know she was awake.
A cheerful woman of middling age, with a huge headdress and a red, cheery face bustled in, followed by a serving girl, who carried a wooden tray full of crockery.
“Awake, my pet?” the woman prattled in English. “Here now, Nan, put the tray on yon chest. Aye, there’s a poppet!”
The woman approached the bedside, flung wide the curtains and smiled down at Celeste. “Aye,” she announced with satisfaction. “Awake, and hungry like a newborn kitten, I’ll warrant.”
Celeste understood most of what the woman said. She bided her time before speaking.
The woman took a steaming cup from the girl and offered it to Celeste. “Drink this, my dearie-duck, and you’ll feel right as rain in no time.”
Celeste took the cup and sniffed the steam. A comforting mixture of cinnamon and clove scents greeted her. The woman chuckled. “Bless you and keep you, child. ’Tis no witch’s brew, I vow, but a goodly posset. Drink it up.”
Celeste glanced with a wary eye over the rim of the cup. “Where is Pierre?” she finally asked. If the women looked guilty, then Celeste would not drink her poison.
“Pierre, Nan?” the older woman questioned the girl by the fire.
“The French boy who came with Lady Celeste, Mistress Kate.” Nan grinned widely.
Mistress Kate chuckled. “Oh, him! Rest you easy, my lady. That lad of yours is no doubt lolling by the kitchen fire and charming all my scullery maids. Aye, he has a fair tongue to him.” She glanced meaningfully at Nan, who giggled and turned back to tending the fire. “Or so I have been told.”
“And Brother Guy?” Celeste held her breath. Pray God he was still here.
“In the chapel, my lady, where he stays most of the time. He has been on his knees night and day since he brought you here. Now, no more questions. Drink up the posset, afore it cools and loses its strength.”
Relieved more than she cared to admit, Celeste did as she was told. The drink slid down her throat with healing goodness.
“Nan, run to Lady Mary and tell her our guest is awake and feeling better. Lackaday, my lady! You gave all of us a good fright.” Mistress Kate took the cup, then settled herself on the edge of the bed with a bowl and spoon in hand.
“Oxtail soup,” she said in answer to Celeste’s look of silent query. “We had best enjoy our meat now, seeing that Advent is coming nigh. I tell you, my lady, every time I turn around ’tis some sort of fast day or other. Makes a body wonder how the bishop stays so fat. Open wide, so please you.” She held out the wooden spoon, brimming with rich broth and tempting chunks of meat and vegetables. With a contented sigh, Celeste drank it down.
“Gaston and the men?” she asked between mouthfuls. Considering that it came from an English kitchen, the soup tasted better than expected.
<
br /> Mistress Kate laughed and almost spilled the next portion on the coverlet. “By all the saints, my lady. That man of yours, Gaston—he is a piece of work, and no mistake.”
Celeste opened her mouth to ask what Mistress Kate meant by that, but got another spoonful instead.
“What a merry band they are! Like Robin Hood’s men of old. And you be Maid Marian, I trow.” She laughed at her jest, though Celeste did not see the humor of it. Were Gaston and the rest misbehaving with the castle’s servants? How could they dishonor the name of de Montcalm?
“Frown not, my lady.” Mistress Kate sopped a piece of crusty bread in the bottom of the bowl and held out a morsel to Celeste. “Your lads mean no harm, and none is taken.” She chuckled again. Celeste obediently swallowed the dripping bread.
“Is here Znape Castle?” Celeste asked, after the bowl and spoon had disappeared.
Mistress Kate’s brows soared up toward her preposterous white headdress. “Bless you, my lady, no. I know not Snape Castle, save that I ken that is where you journey. Nay, you are here at Cranston Hall, home of Sir Martin and Lady Mary Washburne. Sir Martin has been at court these past four months waiting upon His Majesty, but my Lady Mary is here and craves your company. She has grown weary of our faces, and her nephew refuses to talk with her.”
“’Er nev-few? ’E is ill?”
Mistress Kate’s mirth threatened to tumble off her headdress. “Nay, not so, unless it be in his head. You ken more of that than I. Bless you, my pet. Lady Mary’s nephew is Sir Guy Cavendish—him that brought you here.”
The ceaseless rain and chill wind put Walter Ormond even more out of temper with his minions than their odious personal habits. If it weren’t for the threat of becoming the laughingstock of Snape’s lowest society, Walter would have abandoned this idiotic quest for his elusive bride four days ago, when the rains began. It appeared that the girl had completely vanished.
In the beginning, when Walter inquired at the sign of the Red Lion, outside of Manchester, easy victory had danced within his grasp. The innkeeper had remembered a French lady traveling with baggage and an assortment of men. She had even had her own confessor with her. Just what Walter needed—a wife who prayed a lot. Never mind. He’d give her plenty of reason to fall on her knees when he finally found her. Or—better yet—to fall on her back. His cracked lips twisted into a smirk. The innkeeper had said the wench was a beauty. All the more reason she should be his bride and not wed the burnt-out man his father had become.
Raindrops spattered down the chimney of the Lion and Child in Huddersfield, causing the embers to sizzle. Walter stretched out his legs toward its feeble warmth. He shivered all the time in this hell-sent weather. He drained the ale in his mug. On the other side of the chamber, his hirelings slept; their snores grated against Walter’s taut nerves. The devil take the lot of them, and be welcome! They stank enough to make one retch. And that Deighton! Walter shuddered.
Walter had known his share of lowlifes in the stews of London, but Deighton would make even those ruffians quake in their boots. He plans to slit my throat. A gladsome thought on such a foul night. Walter presumed the ham-fisted lout was biding his time, waiting until the Frenchie and her dowry were in hand. No doubt, Deighton would then kill the lot of them, with or without the others’ help. Afterward, he’d make for the borders with his ill-gotten gains.
I’ll serve him in his own stew first. Walter placed his mug quietly on the floor. He didn’t want to risk waking the dogs that necessity forced him to lie down with. A hot coal of anger burned in his gut. God’s teeth! Where had the wench and her gold flown to now?
Chapter Fifteen
Though she understood only a smattering of French, Lady Mary Washburne found her new houseguest utterly charming. She couldn’t have been more surprised when Guy, outlandishly dressed in a monk’s habit, appeared at the door of Cranston Hall, carrying, the unconscious girl in his arms. It didn’t take Lady Mary long to discover how very ill Celeste was. For five days, the girl had tossed in a feverish sleep, babbling in French. The entire household had breathed a sigh of relief when Celeste finally regained her senses and began to eat.
Like a restless spirit petitioning at heaven’s gate, Guy haunted the chapel. Her nephew looked in a shocking state himself. Where once he would have devoured half a roasted ox in one sitting, now Guy turned away from every dainty dish the housekeeper, Mistress Kate, could devise. The boy had dwindled to a long, lanky bundle of skin and bones. And this ridiculous vow of silence! Guy should be allowed to speak to his own aunt. Lady Mary never had quite understood what possessed her nephew, always a merry, robust lad, to renounce his birthright and bury himself in some cold little monastery. Just look what that folly had done to him!
“I am glad to see you strong enough to dress and join me,” Lady Mary said to her guest when Celeste entered the warm, well-lighted gallery just off the master bedroom.
Though frost cloaked the tiny diamond-shaped panes of window glass, a cheerful fire, crackling in the grate, kept the early winter’s cold at bay. Sitting in a high-backed settle facing the warmth, Lady Mary was embroidering a design of ivy leaves on the collar of one of her husband’s shirts. She patted the cushioned seat beside her.
“Sit here, my dear, lest you get chilled again. We don’t want that to happen, do we?”
Celeste smiled wryly as she took the place next to her hostess. “Non, I do not like the sicknezz.”
Lady Mary draped a furred lap robe over Celeste’s knees. “I should think not. ’Tis a foul time of the year to have the ague. You must not think of traveling until you are completely well.” Lady Mary put up her hand to stop the protest she saw forming on Celeste’s lips. “Nay, I insist. ’Twill do you no good to chase off after your bridegroom in this weather. The man has waited all this time for you, he can wait another few weeks. I shall send him a message this very day.”
“Weeks?” Celeste looked stricken. “Oh, no, good lady, I must leave before the snow.”
Lady Mary merely shook her head. “Then you are already too late, my dear. We had a light covering on the Feast of All Saints, when the fever still held you.”
“Sacre!” Celeste murmured under her breath.
“Aye, ’tis melted now, but the roads are still frozen. You are more than welcome to stay here as long as you like. Why not pass the Christmas season with us? My husband, Sir Martin, will have returned from his duties at Westminster, and he would be right glad to meet you.”
“Merci, you are ver-rey kind, but I must go soon.” Celeste chewed her lower lip.
Lady Mary made another neat stitch in her embroidery. The girl was moonstruck, or perhaps she didn’t understand the severity of the English weather. That must be it. Before she could say anything else to Celeste, the door at the end of the room opened and Guy slipped inside.
Both women by the fire looked up at him and smiled as he approached them. Leaning over the back of the settle, Guy kissed his father’s sister on the cheek. Then he nodded to Celeste, hoping his profound joy at her recovery wasn’t too apparent on his face. It would not be right if she knew how much he had worried and prayed for her good health. He wanted to kiss the faint pink roses that bloomed under her skin and brush his lips over each of those velvet-violet eyes. The urge to pick Celeste up and swing her around the room was so great, Guy had to stuff his hands deep inside his wide sleeves to keep from grabbing her around the waist.
Lady Mary patted Guy’s shoulder with all the warmth of her affectionate heart. Then she looked from one to the other of her visitors, with an undisguised twinkle of excitement in her blue eyes. “Now, what am I to do with the two of you? You, Guy, are as skinny as that foolish donkey of yours. And, Lady Celeste, you are almost as thin.”
Guy caught Celeste’s gaze. He winked at her before he realized what he had done. She blinked with surprise, then, when Lady Mary wasn’t looking, winked back. Guy suppressed a natural chuckle. The minx was too adorable by half. Fortunately, his aunt had not noticed
the exchange, and she continued pursuing her line of thought. Guy knew from experience that Lady Mary would worry her subject to death like a badger.
“I have instructed Mistress Kate to see that the kitchen does its best for you. You must eat, both of you. Advent is only a few weeks away, and you need the strength of good meat before the season of fasting. Guy, I am surprised. I have never known you to refuse one of my dinners.” She turned to Celeste. “Both he and his brother Brandon were always hearty trenchermen. Many a time they have stopped here on their way to or from the court and proceeded to eat us out of house and home.”
“Oh, la, la!” Celeste cocked her head at Guy, her eyes wide open with apparent innocence.
He sat down by the hearth and tossed another log on the fire, then busied himself with the poker. Though she hid it well, Guy detected Celeste’s mounting interest in his past life—the life he had sworn away forever. If it had not been for the seriousness of her illness, he would have bypassed Cranston Hall without either his aunt or Celeste being the wiser. He stabbed the poker deep into the glowing coals.
Every time he recalled that hellish ride to the safety of his aunt’s home, he shivered. Thank the good Lord, Gaston’s horse possessed a great heart. After the first five miles, Guy had left Pierre trailing far behind him. Twenty-three miles through the rain and later sleet, Black Devil’s hooves had pounded the rocky ground. All that time, Celeste had lain still in his arms, like one dead. By the time they finally arrived at Cranston Hall, Guy had feared he had killed her. No penance on earth would have soothed his soul for that. Guy struck the log so hard with the poker, a shower of sparks rose up the flue.
“Guy, stop your woolgathering. I pray you, give me your attention. We must devise ways to entertain Lady Celeste while she is my guest. And mark me, nephew, I shall not have you forever on your knees in my chapel.” Lady Mary arched one brow at him. “You were never loath to be entertained before.”
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