With a savage growl, he tore the linen from the bed as if it were leprous.
Moments later, Elma knocked softly, and opened the door of the bedchamber when bidden to do so to behold a smiling Sir George standing in front of the window.
“I’ve come—” she began, curtsying on the threshold.
“To tidy the bedchamber,” he said. He glanced ruefully at the bed, and Elma saw the pile of linen on the floor beside it. “You have your work cut out for you, I’m afraid.”
Elma nodded as she entered, while he strolled past her toward the door. He paused to look back at her. “You will find a pair of breeches lying in the courtyard,” he remarked as nonchalantly as if he stored his clothing in that location. “Burn them. Then you will take all of Lady Aileas’s clothing except her shifts and her gowns, and you will burn them, too. And then the linen from this bed.”
“I...I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“I want it all burned.” He gave her a conspiratorial grin. “I have reason to fear that fleas were something of a nuisance in Dugall Castle. Therefore, I would also like you to find some fleabane and spread it on the floor, and the feather bed will need a good beating.”
“Ah!” Elma nodded her understanding. “Of course, my lord.”
“Thank you, Elma,” his lordship said as he shut the door softly.
George rose as Lady Margot joined him at the high table for the noon meal. He had spent the morning at the mill, arriving back in time to eat. “Ah, here you are, and looking as lovely as ever!” he said pleasantly.
“Where is Lady Aileas?” Margot asked, slipping gracefully onto her chair beside George. “I trust she is well?”
He had no idea where Aileas was, except that she was not here. Perhaps she was once again in the barracks, he thought, instantly regretting conjuring up that image. “She is seeing to that horse of hers,” he lied smoothly.
“You look tired.”
“I am as exhausted as a bridegroom should be,” he answered flippantly.
“That bodes well for your happiness,” Margot said with a sweet smile.
“Did you entertain doubts?”
His cousin didn’t meet his gaze, instead daintily reached for some bread. “She is not quite the bride I had expected you would choose, I must confess,” Margot said softly.
“Nor I,” he replied, trying to sound merry. He tore a piece of his loaf into tiny pieces and tossed the bits to a nearby hound, who sniffed at it in a desultory manner before ambling away. “She has the manners and speech of a villein, and dresses like some kind of jester.”
“Why did you marry her?”
George leaned toward Margot and whispered secretively, “I must have been bewitched.”
“I’ve known you too long for you to play these little games with me, George de Gramercie,” Margot said. “I assure you, I am quite serious. Why did you marry her?”
“My father wanted it, her father wanted it, and I saw no reason not to.”
Margot twisted to regard him steadily, a frown marring her expression. “Will you never be serious with me, George?”
Surprised by the intensity of her tone and look, George felt himself blush. “Very well,” he said gravely. “I had no wish for a boring wife and Aileas never ceases to amaze me.”
“If you don’t wish to answer me honestly, very well,” Margot said, turning away, “and I will go back home.”
“I was being truthful,” George admitted quietly.
Margot’s eyes searched his face. “I believe this time you are sincere. Will she make you happy, though?”
He opened his mouth to confirm her estimation, but his natural honesty prevented him from speaking. Instead, he took a drink of the ale before him.
When he set his goblet down, he spoke in his usual jovial tone. There was no need for Margot to suspect that there was anything seriously amiss with his marriage. “It is only that she doesn’t know how to dance or dress properly, but I’m sure she’ll learn those things from you.”
“She looked well enough dressed to me.”
“Now who is not being serious?” George demanded lightly.
“Granted, the skirt was a little short, but that is easily fixed.”
“She wears men’s clothing.”
“Because it is what she is used to. I daresay she hasn’t ever had the services of a good dressmaker, and you must believe me, George, when I say that there is nothing so uncomfortable as an ill-fitting gown.”
“Except ill-fitting armor,” he observed.
Margot laughed melodiously. “I’m sure you are right. Still, Aileas might feel differently about gowns when they fit properly. May we have some new ones made?”
“Of course you may. In fact, I insist upon it—and it is now something of a necessity. I had her other clothes burned.”
Margot stared at him, appalled. “You did what?”
“I told Elma to burn her other clothes today. She wouldn’t stop wearing them otherwise,” George said defensively. “I’m not talking about dresses, you understand,” he continued. “The breeches and her brothers’ old tunics, not her shifts or the two gowns she does own. Those other things were probably full of fleas, anyway.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. As well as completely improper for the wife of a lord.”
“What did she say when you did that?”
“I don’t know if she’s found out about it yet.”
Margot slowly shook her head. “I’m surprised you resorted to such measures, George. That doesn’t sound like you.”
No, it didn’t—as he well knew. “Aileas wouldn’t listen to my point of view, so I had no choice.”
“You got angry at her, didn’t you?”
“My dear Margot,” George protested, “I do not get angry.”
“No, you don’t,” she admitted. “But she does, I’m sure.”
He made a face of distaste. “I confess I am not looking forward to her reaction.”
“Tell me, George, did she act the demure maiden at her father’s castle?”
“No, she didn’t,” George admitted. “But I thought—”
“That you could improve her? Or would train be a more accurate word?”
A strange expression crossed his face before he smiled sardonically. “You make it sound as if we were speaking of a horse or a hawk,” he remarked. “I will confess that I thought I could do something about her wardrobe, and with your help, amend her more barbarous mannerisms.”
“Instead you find she resists such efforts.”
“Stubbornly,” he confirmed.
Margot smiled wryly. “You, on the other hand, are never stubborn.”
He eyed her warily but said nothing.
“Need I point out that burning somebody’s clothing, however much you hate it, bespeaks a certain stubborn insistence on having one’s own way?”
“I couldn’t think of an alternative.”
“You were not angry?”
“I don’t get angry,” he reminded her.
“Or frustrated?”
“Perhaps a little.”
“I see. Perhaps she won’t be upset if the dressmaker is here,” Margot speculated.
“That is an excellent notion, Margot,” George said, some relief in his voice.
“Is there a good one in the village?”
“I would say there must be at least one. I have noticed several well-dressed women in the market.”
“That I can believe. Then we shall have to have a dressmaker come here this very afternoon.”
“Very well. I shall send Elma to fetch the one she thinks best.”
Margot gave her cousin a sidelong glance. “George?”
“Yes?”
“Did you really only ask me here to be her teacher in matters of dress and deportment?”
“Yes.”
“Not to show your wife what you rejected for her?”
This time it was George’s turn to stare. “I never rejected you, Margot!”
; She patted his hand and smiled sympathetically. “No, you never thought of me that way at all. I know. I never thought of you that way, either,” she lied as smoothly as George had before. “I simply wanted you to see that she may interpret my presence in a manner far different from what you intend.”
“There is no excuse for her discourtesy, to you or anyone else.”
“I didn’t mind. I could understand. And truly, George, I would rather she launch her barbs in a direct assault than a sneak attack or an ambush.”
“She is nothing if not direct.”
“And you admire her for it.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Of course you do. Just as you care for her more than you’re willing to acknowledge.”
George eyed his cousin skeptically. “Have you been consulting with that astrologer again, that you can read into my heart?”
“Not at all,” Margot replied. “I know you, that’s all, and I shall do my best to teach her.”
Margot meant what she said, and she did know George well—well enough to know that he had never loved her, except as a sister. She could also tell that he cared very much for his unusual wife, no matter how flippantly he spoke.
It was written in the depths of his eyes, although only a woman in love with him herself might see it.
“What are you doing?” Herbert asked Elma as she stood in the outer ward beside a smoldering pile of cloth, a long stick in her hand.
“Burning most of Lady Aileas’s clothes,” the maid replied, giving him a sidelong glance. “Sir George commanded it.”
“Whatever for?”
“Fleas, he says. But I think he wants her to wear better clothes and this is his method of enforcing his edict. After I am finished here, I am to fetch a dressmaker.”
Sir Richard appeared around the corner tower. Seeing his brother and Elma talking, and noting the curling smoke, he quickened his pace and joined them. “What is this?”
Elma explained to both of the brothers what had happened that morning when she had gone to Sir George’s bedchamber.
“That doesn’t sound like our George,” Richard noted sardonically. “Was he angry?”
“No,” Elma replied, shaking her head. “He was as cool as a brook in the spring, as always.”
“I take it Lady Aileas was nowhere in sight?”
“No, she had gone to the chapel for mass. I saw her go myself.” Elma took her stick and stirred the nearly completely destroyed clothing.
“Did he go to mass?”
“I don’t know,” Elma answered bluntly. “I had work to do.” She looked at Herbert. “Did he?”
Herbert shook his head. “No. He went to the village. He said he was going to speak to the reeve, and I suppose he went to do that.”
“Rafe?” Elma asked sharply. “What about?”
“The mill rate,” Richard said, his tone placating. “I’m sure it’s nothing to get worked up about.”
“The miller is getting anxious,” Herbert said with a nervous glance over his shoulder as if he feared someone spying upon them from the battlements. “He worries that we’ll all be caught and exposed.”
“Why? Has he heard anything?” Richard demanded.
“Nothing specific,” Herbert acknowledged, albeit reluctantly. “I think it was a mistake to enlist him. We could have managed without him.”
“Yes, we could have,” Richard agreed. Then he dropped his voice to a harsh growl. “But at half the profits. Without the miller with us, we couldn’t have switched the weights as often. Besides, he might have discovered them anyway, and gone running to Sir George.” He glanced at Elma. “Not everyone would see the opportunities.”
“You should both be glad I found out what you two were up to. You need someone who hears the servants’ chatter,” Elma observed. “And Herbert might be right. I’m not sure the miller can be counted on to keep quiet. I can see him going to Sir George and claiming it was all our doing to save his own skin.”
“Then we’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t talk, won’t we?” Richard retorted.
“What do you mean?” Herbert asked.
“You know very well.”
“I will have nothing to do with murder!”
“Would you rather run the risk of having our schemes exposed?” Elma demanded.
“Of course not!”
“Of course not,” Richard mimicked. “For then you would never be able to afford Lisette, and she would have to find another man.”
“She loves me!” Herbert declared, but there was doubt in his eyes, and Elma turned away to hide her scornful smile.
“She loves your money, Herbert,” Richard said harshly. “Without that, she will leave you.”
“Still, I shall not do murder,” Herbert replied, although with a conspicuous lessening of resolution.
“My dear brother, have I actually asked you to murder anyone?” Richard asked scornfully. “I only want him warned, for the time being. He is a coward, so a good beating should be sufficient. Or even a good threat.”
Herbert slowly nodded.
“I know just the men for the job, too. I shall tell you where to find them.”
“Me?” Herbert croaked.
“You,” Richard snarled. “Unless you want to have to beat the fool yourself. Now, don’t you have things to do—accounts to go through with our new chatelaine, for instance?”
Herbert gave them both a resigned nod and walked away. When he had disappeared around the corner, Elma glared at the older man. “I knew you shouldn’t have included him. He is going to ruin everything.”
“Now, my dear,” Richard said in soft, appeasing tones, “he will do what we tell him to, so there’s nothing to fear.”
“He’s a sentimental fool.”
“You know I shall keep my eye on him.”
“You’d better!”
Richard flushed and turned his attention to the fire.
“What do you make of this? Do you think there is trouble between the lord and the lady?”
“It’s too early to tell. It could be that he does fear fleas.”
“It would be to our advantage if they didn’t get along. Divide and conquer, eh?” he offered.
“She is not the confiding sort,” Elma noted. “She will keep her own counsel and probably never trust a servant with her fears or worries.”
“Then we shall work upon Sir George. Yes, that might even be better,” he mused. “Herbert and I can plant some seeds of doubt about the bride’s worthiness, and a lonely, unhappily married lord might like a sympathetic maidservant to talk to. Or even to spend his nights with.”
Elma regarded him contemptuously. “I slept with you, Richard, because you paid well for the privilege. Sir George, though, is an honorable man who does not believe in sporting with his servants, as you well know.”
Richard’s face reddened. “And because he would not sport with you and pay for the privilege, you don’t mind stealing from him.”
Elma’s expression was as cold and hard as one of the stones in the wall behind her. “We all have our reasons. Now go, plant whatever seeds you will, as long as no one suspects us of any wrongdoing.”
Chapter Thirteen
Aileas surreptitiously wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt while she glanced up at Herbert Jolliet, who leaned over the parchment-covered desk as she sat in the solar.
With his glum face and pale color, it was almost as if she had Death hanging over her right shoulder. His brother, whose smiles didn’t help but instead made her feel as if he considered her something of a child, stood on her left.
She had no idea why Sir Richard was here. He had nothing to do with estate business. It was bad enough having Herbert hovering over her, trying to explain what each list meant and each notation thereon.
She felt woefully ignorant and desperately wished they could finish this. Indeed, she wished she had hidden in the hayloft, as she had during the noon meal, or the armory, or sneaked out of the castle altogethe
r, not foolishly decided that she could endure such a meeting once in a while. Her head ached from staring at the indecipherable writing and the effort of pretending that she understood.
She looked back down at the parchment in front of her, but could make no better sense of the flowing lines of script than when she had first sat here. The numbers she knew, but she could not quite comprehend the additions and subtractions, and every word was a mystery.
“So you see, my lady, that the measure of flour will need to be increased,” Herbert finished.
Sir Richard fidgeted beside her and then placed his finger beside a line of writing.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she murmured, squinting where Richard pointed. The increase sounded necessary and reasonable.
“I think that is all we need to discuss today,” Herbert said in his customary monotone.
She sighed with relief as the household steward picked up the parchment and began to roll it up. “Will this business always take so long?” she demanded, rubbing her painful temples and feeling the blood throbbing beneath her fingertips.
“No, it shouldn’t,” he replied. “I thought we should be very thorough, this first time.”
“Now that you understand how things stand, my lady,” Sir Richard said, “it will simply be a matter of attending to any necessary changes or alterations.”
“Are you ill, my lady?” Herbert asked, regarding her quizzically. “Is there something you did not understand?”
“No. Of course I understood. It has...it has been a long afternoon, that’s all.” She gave them a wry smile. “Surely you men don’t expect Sir George’s bride to be well rested?”
Herbert blushed like a maiden, and even Sir Richard looked a little taken aback, but then he chuckled. “Yes, of course, my lady.”
Elma appeared in the doorway and eyed them all before curtsying. “If you please, my lady, and if you are finished with the stewards, the dressmaker is here.”
“Dressmaker? I don’t want a dressmaker.”
The stewards and the maid exchanged glances in a significant way that infuriated Aileas. “Who asked for a dressmaker to come?” she demanded.
A Warrior's Bride Page 16
