Читать книгу Taming The Beast - Heather Grothaus - Страница 11

“I’m not going, Hugh.”

“Oh, Rick, come on!” Hugh Gilbert flopped into the wide armchair in Roderick’s chamber. “We’ve not left Cherbon since our arrival. I’m bored out of my very skull. Do I not have a bit of distraction, I do fear I’ll start digging out my own eyes for sport.”

“Shall I have a spoon fetched for you?”

“Witty tonight, are we?” Hugh threw himself from the chair once more and approached Roderick where he sprawled on the floor, stretching rather ineffectively on his own. Hugh dropped to one knee and pressed Roderick’s left shoulder to the floor while he twisted his hip to the right, a hand on his thigh for added weight. “Relax your shoulders.”

“I am,” Roderick growled, the muscles of his back feeling like hammered iron along his spine.

“Well, try to relax them a bit more, then. All right, other side.” He helped Roderick to readjust. “Any matter, the invitation clearly stated that the feast is to be held partially to celebrate your homecoming. It’s rather rude for the guest of honor to refuse.”

Roderick grunted. “I’m quite certain Alan Tornfield would prefer me dead upon some muddy field, now that he has chance to win Cherbon. A feast in my honor—horse shit.”

“Well, then, don’t you at least want to see what he is truly about? Stand up—we’ll work on balance now.”

“No, I don’t.” Roderick struggled to his feet, slapping Hugh’s hand away as he balanced on his good leg. Hugh handed him his broad sword to hold in his left hand. Roderick balanced it on its tip for a moment, to steady his swaying. “I could not care less what piddling scheme Alan thinks he’s come upon. He won’t take Cherbon.”

“He may, if you don’t cease frightening off every eligible lady who darkens our door,” Hugh said testily. “All right then, sword out.” Roderick slowly raised the tip of the sword from the floor until it was perpendicular to his body. “Good, good, Rick—steady! Honestly, one would think you’d at least try to impress a woman the tiniest bit. It’s not as if it’s difficult to do, the poor creatures. A kind word, a smile. Must you always slink about the keep like some great, growling ogre?”

Roderick swayed and returned the sword tip to the floor to regain his balance and sent Hugh a black look. “How would you have me move about, Hugh? Shall I dance?”

“That would be refreshing.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up. Once more with the sword on this side.” Hugh held his hands at the ready to catch Roderick should he fall. “It would not kill you to at least be cordial.”

“I’ve tried cordial, or have you forgotten?” The sword fell and rose again, slowly, but more steady in his right hand than it had been in months. Roderick felt a pang at the taunting memories he held of swinging this piece of metal as if it were a hollow wooden stick. “My attempts were wasted.”

“Your smiles were grimaces, your topics of conversation dour and macabre. You shout at the servants at all hours of the day and night. It’s unsettling.”

“Are you unsettled by it?”

“Of course not. But I’m accustomed to it. Let’s get your boots and we’ll work on swing.”

Roderick lowered the tip of the heavy weapon and hopped backward to sit in the armchair just behind him while Hugh brought his boots. “Then the one who marries me shall also become accustomed to it.” He leaned his sword against the chair and began the daily struggle with his footwear.

“There is no one left to get accustomed to it,” Hugh nearly shouted, then dropped to one knee again. He sighed crossly. “Get off, I’ll do it.”

“No.” Roderick slapped Hugh’s hands away. “I can dress myself.”

“I never insinuated that you could not,” Hugh said. He watched Roderick struggle with his left boot. “Your thirtieth birthday is”—he paused, one thumb touching the fingertips of one hand—“one hundred ninety-two days away, Rick. What are we to do should you not marry?”

Roderick did not answer him, only grunted as at last the left boot slid fully up to his knee.

“Fine then. Let us forget this whole lot in England, Rick,” Hugh said quietly, emphatically. “To hell with Magnus. To hell with Alan Tornfield. To hell with Cherbon! There is no love lost between you and this land, and nothing left for me to lay claim to beyond debt. Together we can return to Constantinople and rebuild our army—your name is likened to a legend there for your bravery! Our fortunes can be reclaimed on our own terms! There we can be princes—kings! I don’t know about you, but I’ve always fancied myself as royalty.”

Hugh let the bold statements hang in the silence for several moments while Roderick studied the floor between his boots. When Roderick still had no answer for his friend, Hugh continued.

“Here, all we have to look forward to, at best, is your unhappy marriage to some horse-faced, cast-off spinster woman. At worst, you won’t marry at all and the two of us—as well as Leo—will be tossed out on our arses. What will become of him then, Rick? At least if you marry he has a chance of an inheritance. Would you have him a beggar child?”

“I won’t let that happen, Hugh.”

“Then at least go to the feast at Tornfield tonight,” Hugh reasoned. “See what Alan is about. Mayhap if you employ but a tiny—tiny—bit of charm, you could find your future bride in a setting not so dreadful”—he waved a hand, indicating Roderick’s dark and gloomy bedchamber—“as all this.”

Roderick thought upon the suggestion for several moments, but then shook his head. If he was going to be stared at, he preferred it be in his own home, where he could escape if he wished.

“No. I’ll not change my mind. But—”

“Rick!”

“You go, Hugh, in my stead,” Roderick clarified. “Extend my regrets to my cousin and find out what you can.”

Hugh stared wide-eyed at Roderick, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “Verily, Rick? You wish me to go?”

“I do. Most dreadfully, I do, if only to have a reprieve from your incessant nagging and physical torture upon my person.”

Hugh’s face split into a wide grin, and Roderick felt a moment’s guilt in realizing that Hugh rarely showed his teeth lately beyond a sarcastic smirk to anyone other than Leo.

“Smashing,” Hugh said, and shot to his feet. “Brilliant idea, Rick! I’ll leave directly, and will return on the morrow.” Hugh seemed to be spinning thoughts in his head, speaking aloud but not really expecting a reply. “I shall wear the green—no, blue—tunic. And my red cape and boots. Or the buff…?”

“I’m certain you’ll look very comely. Now, get out,” Roderick growled.

“But, what of the physical torture? We haven’t finished your exercises.” Hugh frowned.

“If we continue, you’ll not have time to ready yourself. I’m sure you wish to bathe.”

“God’s teeth—you’re right! I smell like a goatherd.” Hugh spun to the door then spun back to Roderick as if so caught up with excitement that he’d gone brainless. “But Leo—?”

“Send him to me before you depart. Surely we can stand each other’s company for one evening.”

Hugh grew still, even in the whirlwind of anticipation. “He’ll like that very much, Rick.”

Roderick waved him away and did not meet his eyes.

“I’ll send him up in a thrice.” A pause. “You’re certain you can—”

“I’m not completely helpless, Hugh.”

“Of course you’re not,” Hugh said quietly, and Roderick felt a pinch of humiliation at the placating tone. “I’ve never, never thought that of you—how could I?” Hugh sighed when he received no answer. “I’ll see you on the morrow, Rick—with gossip aplenty, I hope.”

Michaela pulled Elizabeth along the corridor behind the kitchens, both girls with their hands over their mouths to stifle the giggles—well, Michaela’s giggles. No merry sound came from behind Elizabeth’s hand, although her mouth was pulled deep into her cheeks in a grin and her eyes sparkled. They stopped behind a set of tall wooden shelves, just before the doorway to the noisy, smoky, fragrant kitchen.

Michaela turned her head to Elizabeth with a finger to her mouth, then she pulled on one ear and pointed toward the doorway.

Listen!

“—take six of us to move this cake. Merciful savior, I’ve never seen such a prideful thing. To think of all the foodstuffs wasted on such a frivolous—”

“Oh, pooh! ’Tis been a fair piece of time since the lord’s been s’happy. Good for him, I say. Huzzah to the lord and his new bride.”

At Michaela’s side, Elizabeth gripped her arm. Michaela turned to see the little girl’s mouth hung open in a shocked O. Elizabeth snaked an arm about Michaela’s waist as the two continued to listen.

“Huzzah, indeed. ’Tis scandalous, is what it is. I fail to see how he could just up and marry her, on this very night, with no time of betrothal! Her!”

“They’ve known each other long enough—why delay it, when all will be gathered tonight to witness it? And Lady Elizabeth is in sore want of a mother.”

A disgusted snort. “Not of that sort, I daresay. A nasty bit of work, that one.”

Elizabeth made as if to pull away from Michaela and charge through the doorway, but Michaela pulled her back.

“It is of no consequence what they say, Elizabeth,” Michaela whispered with a smile. “What do we care for what they think, eh? The only thing that matters is that my suspicions were correct—and now we can be together, like a real family, forever.”

The angry frown melted away from Elizabeth’s face, to be replaced by a wondrous smile. She pulled away gently this time and did a slow spin with her skirts held out, her eyes closing briefly as if in rapture.

“You look beautiful,” Michaela whispered. “Like a princess.” And it was true. Michaela was doubly glad she’d created the new ensemble she herself now wore. Since Lady Juliette had stained her one good gown, and the lovely boon she’d won from the woman was delivered in pieces, Michaela had used a bit of imagination and combined the two. Now, her rose-colored satin skirt was quilted over with long, wide strips of the dark green velvet, strategically and evenly covering the stains. The colors alternated like a maypole and Michaela had to admit that the effect was striking. With the pieces of the green bodice, she’d fashioned a beautiful short, lace-up vest to go over her own gown, allowing her long, wide rose sleeves to show.

For the first time in her life, Michaela was thankful that her family had been too poor to employ a full-time seamstress.

Michaela hoped Lady Juliette had been invited to the feast so that she could see the rather ingenious use of the gown she’d sought to cheat Michaela out of.

It would be Michaela’s wedding gown.

Elizabeth stopped her twirling and stepped close to Michaela. She placed one small palm first over her own heart, and then reached out to touch Michaela’s chest.

Michaela felt emotion well into her eyes. “I love you, too, Elizabeth,” she whispered in a cracking voice. Then the faint sounds of strings being plucked into tune reached her ears and she hastily wiped at her eyes while donning a bright smile. “Let’s carry on to the hall—the musicians have arrived and I don’t wish to miss one moment of this feast.”

Michaela just knew it was going to be the greatest night in the whole of her life.

The meal dragged on what seemed like forever, but Michaela didn’t mind in the least. She was enjoying sitting at the lord’s table, Elizabeth between her and Alan, the flood of the guests poured into Tornfield’s hall admiring the three of them.

And her heart did an evil, prideful little dance to see Lady Juliette of Osprey indeed sitting at one of the front tables. Michaela made sure to acknowledge the wretch with a slight nod and sweet smile. To her surprise, Lady Juliette returned the gesture and even added an admiring glance at Michaela’s vest.

Of course she will be only pleasant to me now, Michaela reasoned. I will be her better, and the lady of the keep. Soon she will be a guest in my home.

And it was then that Michaela decided to forgive Lady Juliette for all her past slights, and she felt a burden she’d not known she was carrying slide from her back.

Agatha Fortune was right—forgiveness was a happy balm to the soul.

As if to affirm the adage, Michaela’s gaze swept to where her parents were seated—at a table of honor, with Lady Juliette, no less. Michaela’d had no time to speak with her mother or father, but she made sure to wave several times and blow her father a discreet kiss from one finger.

They, as usual, looked very happy. As if they’d not a single care in the world.

The clang of dishes being cleared competed with the music, and was soon cushioned by the oohing of the guests. From the left side of the hall, two strapping young serving boys carried out an impossibly large tray, covered edge to edge in what had to be the biggest cake ever served outside of London. Elizabeth shot to her feet to look down upon the masterpiece as it was set slowly and carefully on a heretofore empty table before the lord’s dais. Michaela—striving for an air of maturity—did not stand, although she did lean forward eagerly.

The shallow, wide cake was shaped like a battle shield, covered in swirls of pattern made from crushed nuts, mimicking perfectly the Cherbon crest, and decorated with the tiniest sprigs of late ferns and autumn leaves. Bouquets of dyed feathers and ribbon adorned the corners like fantastic fountains. It looked too beautiful to be a confection meant to be eaten.

When the cake was at last safely deposited on the table, the servant boys stepped away, Alan stood, and the guests broke into applause. Alan let them go on for a few moments, smiling and nodding his head as he looked about the blanket of expectant and curious faces. Then he raised both hands, begging silence.

“Good evening, friends. Thank you all for making the journey to Tornfield this night. It is with a light and joyful heart that I and my family”—he swept an arm to his right, indicating Elizabeth and Michaela, and Michaela’s heart skipped—“welcome you to our home, to share in a very happy event.”

Beneath the table, Elizabeth’s hand snaked on to Michaela’s thigh and seized her hand tightly. Michaela squeezed back.

“Of course I speak for us all in expressing regret that our liege, Lord Roderick Cherbon, was unable to attend tonight due to personal business that demanded his attention. I would have liked very much for him to be with us.”

Surely he must be a saint, Michaela thought, to speak such kind words about the Cherbon Devil. My husband is a good, good man.

“But I will extend a hearty welcome to his first man, Sir Hugh Gilbert, also just returned from the Holy Land.” Alan put his hands together and the rest of the guests followed suit as a dark-haired, tall, and slender man stood from the table where Lady Juliette and Michaela’s parents also sat.

From Michaela’s vantage point on the raised dais, it was clear to see the commotion Sir Hugh Gilbert caused within the female population. Michaela herself was surprised at the man’s handsomeness, and his dress was superb—costly and fine. His black hair was trimmed close to his scalp, and he sported a very short beard—little more than heavy shadow, actually. Michaela could see the dark rim of thick lashes around his eyes from her seat. Below her, women companions craned their neck to catch a clearer glimpse of the stranger and then leaned their heads together, twittering excitedly.

And Sir Hugh seemed quite aware of the attention he was garnering, for as he spoke, he let his eyes stray from Alan’s figure and rove over the appreciative crowd, as if he was a minstrel, readying to recite dramatic verse for an eager audience.

“My dear Lord Tornfield, Lord Cherbon wishes me to extend his deepest and most heartfelt regrets that he could not personally answer your gracious call to feast with you and your guests. He wishes for me to assure you all that he is ready to fulfill the void left in the demesne by his father’s death, and as such, his many responsibilities oft keep him engaged. Rest assured though, that he is at your service should you but ask for his assistance.” This well-spoken and dazzling man bowed slightly in Alan’s direction. “Lord Tornfield, you have my own personal thanks for your gracious and warm hospitality.” He sat.

Michaela saw a somewhat bemused smile come over Alan’s face. “Sir Hugh, if you would indulge me, Lord Cherbon is not…ill, is he?”

Hugh stood once more. “Not at all, Lord Tornfield. The very epitome of health.” He began to sit.

“Forgive me, but I—we all—had heard that he was wounded most dire in the Holy Land. I thought mayhap his injuries—”

Hugh stood erect again, slowly, and pinned Alan with what Michaela saw as an overly haughty look.

“I can assure you that any injuries Lord Cherbon sustained do not hinder his abilities to rule in any manner whatsoever. But I will most certainly relay your kind inquiry after his health to him. I’m certain he will be touched by your…concern.” Sir Hugh sat once more.

Michaela could not help but feel slightly piqued—as though in some nearly undetectable manner, this Sir Hugh Gilbert had managed to chastise Alan in his own hall, at his own feast.

Michaela decided she did not like this man, handsome or not, one tiny bit.

Alan cleared his throat. “Very fine. Thank you, Sir Hugh.” He looked back to the crowd. “And now, for the main purpose of our gathering.”

All thoughts of the pompous knight flew from Michaela’s head and her stomach clenched. She caught her mother’s eye and winked. Agatha sent her a kind, if rather confused, smile.

“As you all know, my daughter and I have been on our own following the tragic and untimely death of my wife. Tornfield Manor has been lacking in a lady’s touch, and my daughter lacking for the close bond of a mother. I mean to remedy that this very night.”

At Michaela’s side, Elizabeth was nearly bouncing in her seat.

“It is customary to gather all together for the announcement of betrothal, and in that I will not disappoint, save that the period of engagement for myself and my new bride will likely be the shortest on record. Friar Cope?” A robed man Michaela was well-familiar with materialized from the shadows of a perimeter wall and made his way to stand near the magnificent Cherbon cake. The audience gasped.

“Indeed.” Alan smiled proudly. “For on this night not only do I announce my intent to wed, I will have it done before you all as my witnesses.” The proclamation sounded strange to Michaela’s ears but she paid it no heed, so consumed with joy and excitement was she.

Michaela wanted to gain her feet in anticipation of Alan’s announcement, but restrained her anxiousness until his next words. She drew a deep, steadying breath.

“It is with great pride that I present to you all the next Lady Tornfield, Lady Juliette of Osprey.”

For a moment, Michaela thought she’d misheard Alan because of the thunderous applause that vibrated the stone walls of the hall. But a croaking sound to her left, a sound that was quiet and strangled and should have been unheard in the din, cut through the roar of approval from the guests as well as the screaming in Michaela’s own head. She turned her head slowly, slowly, as if in a dream, to see Elizabeth duck under the table and run to stand before her father, tears streaming down her pale face.

“Pa—” she croaked. “Pa-pa, no! You said the…wrong name. Michaela said…you were to marry her!”

The only sounds following the shocking words were the pounding of Michaela’s own heart and the hushed breaths of the guests.

Then Lady Juliette stood from her seat, and smiled at the girl. “Come now, dear—your father would not marry Miss Fortune. You and I will get along brilliantly.”

Alan, however had dropped to his knees before his daughter and grasped her shoulders. Michaela looked at his wide, welling eyes as if she were still caught in some lucid dream that was quickly becoming a nightmare.

“Elizabeth—you spoke! My darling girl, I—”

Elizabeth jerked out of his hands. “Say it’s not true, Papa. You love Michaela. Say!”

Alan swallowed and his eyes flicked over Elizabeth’s shoulder to Michaela, who could not seem to breathe at that moment. “I am marrying Lady Juliette, my love. But Lady Michaela will—”

“No!” Elizabeth shouted and then turned to Michaela, who could do nothing but stare back helplessly.

Then the little girl ran from the hall. Michaela wanted to follow her, but could not command her legs to move. Alan was still looking at her. The hall was deathly silent.

Then the clicking of heels caused both Michaela and Alan to turn. Lady Juliette stood before the table, her brows drawn slightly. “My lord, do you wish to postpone the ceremony?” she asked quietly. “I do not wish for—”

“No,” Alan interrupted, and rose to stand. With one final, strangely pleading glance at Michaela, he joined Juliette and the friar, while Michaela’s throat tightened, tightened, and the usually ignored metal link beneath her dress seemed to be burning a hole into her flesh.

And when kind Friar Cope cleared his throat and began to speak, when Alan took Juliette’s hand, his back to Michaela, now sitting alone at the lord’s table, Michaela’s heart shattered into a hundred thousand pieces.