“How is your sire?” Tavis asked.
“He is still very sick.”
“When he is awake, I would like to see him.”
Tavis’s words were casually spoken, but she guessed there was a far greater reason for him to want to see her father than to deliver the sword ordered from Dumfries. Yesterday, her sire had mentioned a letter. Had Tavis written it? Mayhap he was to collect it from her sire and deliver it to a peer in Galloway?
Her innards twisted at the realization that her sire could be involved in more matters she didn’t know anything about, but that could affect her and the rest of the folk at Kellenham.
As Tavis held her gaze, she longed to ask his intentions, but whatever he had to say, ’twould be best said in private.
“Father,” Merry called. “Can I take Dandelion to that patch of grass over there?” She pointed to a spot near the kitchens.
“You may. I will come with you.” As Tavis brushed past Helena, he said, “When Merry and I are done, I hope your sire will accept visitors.”
Chapter Six
“Father, you should have told me you were expecting Tavis de Rowenne.”
Propped up by mounded pillows, her sire stared at the fire in the hearth, while his mouth flattened into a mutinous line. The chamber wasn’t hot, but his face was flushed, and his sweat-soaked gray hair stuck out around his head, so he appeared as if he’d been fighting his way through a winter tempest.
He looked so wildly unkempt, Helena might have giggled, except he had a fever, and she was annoyed at his deception. “Father,” she repeated, more firmly this time.
He grunted.
“What kind of an answer was that?” When he didn’t reply, and didn’t bother to glance at her, she held the mug of vegetable broth up to his mouth, but he made no attempt to drink.
Frowning, she sat back in the oak chair beside the bed. “You could have at least warned me.”
At last, her sire’s bleary gaze met hers. “If I had told you beforehand, you would have run off to visit your brother or sister, or some such nonsense.”
A brittle laugh broke from her. “Would that have been so terrible of me?”
“I needed you here.”
“Why?” Her eyes widened. “Did you know you were going to fall ill?”
“Of course not!” Scowling, he plucked at the frayed edge of a blanket. “I knew Crandall would want to see the ledger during his visit. Since you keep the accounts, and he might have had questions, I wanted you at my side, and…”
“And?” she pressed. He was not going to evade giving her a good answer.
“I thought the surprise of seeing Tavis might…well…help resolve what happened in the past between you.”
An unwelcome sense of betrayal pressed down upon her. Had her father really imagined that what had transpired between her and Tavis could be resolved so quickly and easily? Anger simmered, but she swiftly tamped it down. The last thing either of them needed was a heated argument. “I would have preferred to have been forewarned,” she finally said. “The shock of facing him again, while I was busy fighting the fire—”
Bedding rustled as her sire weakly patted her hand. “I can imagine.”
“Can you? Really?” She’d never forget the moment she’d looked up to see Tavis, of all people, in front of her. Her hand instinctively tightened on the earthenware mug.
“I am told you two worked well together and did an excellent job fighting the blaze.”
At her sire’s praise, a little of her fury softened. “We did not do it alone. We had a lot of help, from servants and also folk from the town.”
“’Twas lucky Tavis happened to be close by when the fire started.”
The faintest mischief gleamed in her father’s eyes. How she hoped ’twas a sign that he was starting to feel better. With effort, she resisted the urge to contradict him, for Tavis had been a tremendous help.
“He did not have to assist us,” her father said. “He could have stayed at the inn and had a long, blissful, uninterrupted night’s sleep—”
She rolled her eyes. “Father—”
“But nay, like the most chivalrous of knights, whether they be Scottish or English, he rushed to our aid.”
Beginning to feel rather ungrateful, Helena looked down at the half-empty mug.
“Can you blame me, Daughter, for wanting you to mend the bitterness of that unfortunate event at the lake? The de Rowennes are honorable men, and important ones to have as allies.” Sadness stole into his features. “Especially now.”
Rarely had she seen her sire look so despondent. Misgiving tugged at her, and as she set the mug on the bedside table, she asked, “What do you mean?” Was he going to explain the importance of the letter he’d mentioned before?
Her father shut his eyes. Suddenly he seemed exhausted, as if overwhelmed by the magnitude of his thoughts. She sat quietly, waiting, refusing to push him, even though she longed for him to answer. The snap and hiss of the fire filled the silence.
“I must tell you all,” her sire finally said, his eyes opening.
“Does what you have to say involve Tavis? Earlier, he asked to see you.”
“There are indeed matters I must discuss with him. If I should die—”
Anguish ripped through her. “Do not speak so!”
He raised a protesting hand. “We must both acknowledge the possibility.” His throat moved with a noisy swallow, but he refused the drink she again offered him. “Listen, now. As I mentioned to you before—”
A knock sounded on the chamber door.
“Who is it?” Helena’s sire called. Under his breath, he groused, “If ’tis Delfina with her wretched potions—”
“Tavis, milord.”
Before Helena could insist that he come back later, her sire said, “Enter.”
The door opened, admitting the Scottish lord. He carried a sword in a leather sheath.
“Lord Marlowe. Helena,” he said, bowing low.
He moved with such sensual elegance, Helena fought a wicked little shiver. She tore her gaze away and smoothed a crease in the top blanket.
“Tavis,” her father said. “What a pleasure to see you. Come in, and shut the door behind you.”
***
Tavis pushed the solar door closed. The chamber smelled of pungent herbs, smoke from the fire, and sweat. Given the choice, Tavis would have left the door open; however, if his lordship planned to discuss what Tavis expected, ’twould be best if the conversation went no farther than this chamber.
As Tavis faced the bed, he noted the wariness in Helena’s eyes. He’d thought they’d established a semblance of friendship after working together to conquer the fire, but she seemed resentful and uncertain.
Silently, he vowed that before he left the castle, she’d gaze upon him with affection. He’d find a way to win her trust and respect. Somehow.
“Please. Sit.” Lord Marlowe pointed to the vacant chair on the opposite side of the bed to Helena.
His lordship looked weak and full of fever; not a good condition for a man of his years. Determined not to stay too long, Tavis moved to the bedside. “If you do not mind, I would prefer to stand.”
“Are you certain you are up to another visitor, Father?” Helena sounded worried, and rightfully so.
“I will manage.” His lordship gestured at the sword. “Is that my new blade?”
“’Tis indeed.” Tavis handed it over.
Helena appeared even more upset. Why? Did she not approve of her father purchasing a new weapon? Or did she resent that the sword was connected to Tavis?
His lordship slowly drew out the gleaming blade. “Magnificent. Just as I expected from your family’s forge.”
“Father, how did you manage to purchase this weapon? You know we—” She abruptly went silent, as though catching herself before she revealed too much.
Tavis frowned. He’d love to know what she’d meant to say.
“Do not fuss, Helena,” his lordship grumbled. “I traded for this swor
d.”
“Traded?”
“When Tavis leaves, he will take my destrier.”
Helena gasped. “Were you going to tell me of this arrangement? Or were you planning to just wait until I noticed the destrier was gone?”
Lord Marlowe slid the sword back into its sheath; the leather whispered in his hands. “I was going to tell you, at some point.”
A cry broke from Helena and she abruptly stood, her chair squealing on the floorboards. Tavis met her blazing eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, while her bosom rose and fell with her quickened breaths. She was clearly furious, but she was also exquisite in her fury. His desire stirred, for he craved her kiss, longed to taste the fiery passion burning within her.
“No more secrets.” Helena’s focus shifted from Tavis to her sire. “If I am managing the keep until you are better, Father, I must know all that is going on.”
His lordship’s hands were trembling, no doubt from fatigue caused by his illness. Tavis took the sword and set it on the trestle table. He experienced a pang of sympathy for Lord Marlowe, for as a father, he understood wanting to protect his daughter from any risk of danger. However, Helena was right; she did need to know the truth, especially now, when her sire was perilously ill.
With a defeated sigh, Lord Marlowe collapsed back on his pillows. Running a hand over his sweaty face, he said, “I will tell you, Daughter. First, though, Tavis must have his letter.”
“What letter?” Helena asked. “The one you mentioned to me yesterday?”
His lordship nodded and then pointed to a spot behind Tavis. Tavis glanced behind him, but saw only the heavy trestle table which ran along most of the wall. “At the back right leg of the table, count five rows up from the floor. Remove the loose stone, and you will find your letter.”
“’Tis addressed to me?” Tavis asked in surprise.
“Aye. It arrived the morning of Crandall’s visit.”
Crandall. ’Twas the name of the official who had visited Dumfries a short while ago. Of course, the King would expect his lackey to get to as many fortresses in Galloway and Cumbria as possible during his travels.
Still, Tavis couldn’t dismiss a growing sense that something was wrong. While his family knew he was bringing a sword to Kellenham, few others did. Had some kind of crisis erupted at Dumfries while he’d been away?
He crouched, located the loose stone, and retrieved the letter. He recognized the costly parchment his father preferred and quickly broke the seal. As Tavis unfurled the missive and began to read, an icy rush of foreboding tore through him.
“As you no doubt know, Helena,” Lord Marlowe was saying, “King John has made enemies throughout England with his damned taxes, fines, and his mistreatment of many good families. Lords who supported him when he came to power no longer believe he is worthy of ruling these lands. Some have even met in secret to draft a Great Charter that will put limits on the King’s authority. More and more lords are supporting the charter.”
“Are such actions not considered treason?” Helena asked.
Tavis reread the lines of black ink penned by his mother. Lord Marlowe’s voice became drowned by the high-pitched ringing sound filling Tavis’s mind. God’s Holy Blood…
“…and I agree that the King has abused his sovereign powers. I need only consider what he has done to us. ’Tis unconscionable.”
“It may be, but he is also the King.”
“’Tis why the charter will be taken to London and formally presented to him. I will join the other noblemen all across England who will be undertaking this crucial journey. ’Tis why I ordered the sword. I hope the charter will not cause a war, but if I have to fight to see justice done, I will.”
“Father,” Helena whispered.
“Tavis and his sire will be journeying to London as well.”
“If my father is still alive.” The words grated from Tavis’s lips. Since the letter was written several days ago, his sire might already be dead, but he didn’t dare dwell upon such a painful thought. “My father has taken gravely ill.”
“What kind of illness?” Lord Marlowe asked, drying his sweat-beaded brow again.
“Mother does not know. He was fine until a few days ago, and then suddenly became so sick and weak he had to be carried to his bed.”
“’Tis what happened to you, Father.”
“’Tis not the only similarity.” The parchment crumpled beneath Tavis’s tightening grip. “Apparently my sire fell ill not long after Crandall left Dumfries.”
Helena eyes widened.
His lordship groaned.
“W-what does this mean?” Like a wilting bloom, Helena sank back down into the chair. “Do you believe Lord Crandall is responsible for this sickness?”
“It cannot be a coincidence that he visited both keeps and both ruling lords are swiftly taken ill.”
Helena reached over and clasped her father’s hand. His lordship’s eyelids were tightly shut, his expression one of resentment and misery.
Anger crackled in Tavis’s veins, for if he guessed correctly, his sire and Lord Marlowe had been poisoned. Whatever the reason, whatever an official’s rank within the ruling council, no one had the right to take another man’s life—and yet, from what Tavis knew of King John, the sovereign himself might have sanctioned such villainy. With both ruling lords dead, the King could cede the castles to men who were unquestionably loyal to him and thereby keep a firm grip on his northern lands.
His rage rising to boil, Tavis rolled up the parchment, shoved it into his belt, and strode back to the bed.
Helena’s eyes glistened with angry tears. “We must know for certain if Lord Crandall caused Father’s sickness.”
Her expression reflected the fury and anguish roiling inside him. “We will.”
“Helena, beware,” his lordship moaned. “’Tis too dangerous—”
“Hush, Father. I will not yield to fear. We must send a letter to the King, stating what has happened, and—”
Tavis shook his head. “’Twill take too long.”
She huffed. “What do you suggest, then?”
“We will ask Crandall exactly what he did.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ask him? How?”
“You mentioned the official had other castles in Cumbria that he intended to visit.”
“Aye. He was headed to Fremley Keep the day of the storm.”
“With the foul weather, he might still be there.”
Determination brightened her features. “Let us hope he is. Come. I will find us a quill and some ink.”
Chapter Seven
Helena strode down the corridor, Tavis beside her. Her mind whirled with all that she’d learned moments ago, while the poignant ache within her drove deeper. Her father had kept so many secrets from her—ones that even Tavis seemed to know.
How utterly foolish she was, for not having suspected that her father wasn’t being truthful. In hindsight, she recalled several instances when he’d shifted their discussions to other matters, or claimed a missive he’d received in her presence was a matter of estate and thus he’d read it later, no doubt so he wouldn’t have to divulge any details of what was really going on.
She fought an angry sob. She should have been more attentive. If she had, her sire wouldn’t now be lying gravely ill in his bed—
“Helena,” Tavis said.
She kept walking, her hands fisted at her sides.
“Helena,” he said again.
When she didn’t answer, he caught her arm, shoved open the door to a nearby chamber, and pulled her inside. She struggled to break his grip, but he was far too strong. As he released her and the chamber door clicked shut, she found herself in the guest room he was sharing with Merry. Two wooden-framed beds were lined up along the opposite wall, and a freshly kindled fire crackled in the hearth.
Facing him, Helena set her hands on her hips. Her chin nudged higher.
His mouth kicked up at the right corner. “I remember that look.”
&
nbsp; “Do you really?”
“You are about to storm off.”
“I would, except you are standing between me and the door. Deliberately, I vow.”
Tavis winked, of all things.
Fie! There was much to do, and he was causing a senseless delay. “Step aside, Tavis.”
“I fear I cannot.”
“Why not? Your boots are not nailed to the floorboards.”
His grin broadened, as if he enjoyed her annoyance. “Aye, well…”
“We were going to write a letter. For that, we need the supplies in my chamber.” She marched toward the door, determined to brush past him.
Tavis caught her arm again, abruptly halting her.
The warmth of his hand reached her through the worn fabric of her sleeve. A tremor ran through her, an acknowledgement of his touch as, trapped beside him, she raised her lashes and glared at him.
His thumb brushed her arm. “Calm yourself, Thistle.”
“Thistle?”
A reddish flush defined his cheekbones. “’Tis a secret name I gave you years ago.” His tone softened. “Like the thistle, you were beautiful, strong, and yet, a little prickly.”
Confusion and pleasure swept through her, heightening her anger. “Why bother to give me such a name? We never expected to see one another again.”
His gaze sharpened, but he didn’t answer.
She tried to wrench free of his hold, but his grip was akin to an iron manacle.
“Tavis, let me go.”
“When we are finished talking.”
“Now.”
He laughed softly. “Easy, Thistle.”
She glowered at him. “We must send that letter as soon as possible. ’Tis very important.”
“Indeed, ’tis. You are important though, too.” Slowly, firmly, he pulled her toward him, forcing her to take a step until they were less than a hand’s span apart. His enticing smell, a mingling of herbal soap and fresh air, teased her senses; she struggled with the urge to lean into him, to better savor his masculine scent.
“If you do not let me go, right now, I will cry for help. Servants will come at a run—”
“I would hope so, since you are the lady of the keep. Yet, ’twould be a shame to put them to such effort when you are not in the slightest peril.”
Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts Page 48
