Читать книгу Tamed by the Barbarian - June Francis, June Francis - Страница 9

‘Where’s my sister?’ Jack, who had been dozing in front of the fire, blinked up at Martha who was setting the table.

‘I don’t know, Master Jack, but it’s a good four hours since Mistress Cicely came to the kitchen. Supper is ready to be served and we’ve had no word from her.’

‘Perhaps she’s in her bedchamber,’ suggested Mackillin.

Martha stared curiously at the Scottish lord and her plump face told him exactly what she made of him. ‘I’ll send Tabitha to look,’ she said.

So the maid went upstairs to her mistress’s bedchamber and found her slumbering. Uncertain what to do, and knowing Cicely had passed many a sleepless night, worrying about her father and brother, Tabitha was reluctant to disturb her mistress and went downstairs to tell of her discovery.

‘Dressed for mourning she is, and lying on top of her bed fast asleep. No doubt she’s exhausted, Master Jack. She’s been fretting for weeks, worrying herself about you and the master, as well as your stepbrother.’

The youth glanced at Mackillin. ‘Should I wake her?’

Mackillin wondered if she was truly asleep or whether she was pretending in order to escape his presence. Either way, it might be best if he were not to see her again before leaving in the morning. ‘Let your mistress rest, lass. Sleep is good for her at such a sad time. Make sure she is warm—I think we’re in for a cold night.’

‘And after you have done that, Tabby, fetch in the supper,’ ordered Jack.

‘And a bowl of water and a drying cloth,’ added Mackillin with a smile. ‘I’d like to wash my hands before I eat.’

Cicely started awake and for several moments lay in the darkness, wondering what had disturbed her sleep. She had been dreaming that she was being chased along a castle’s battlements, pursued by a large hound and a black-cloaked dark figure. Her heart pounded. Then she heard a shutter banging and the howling of the wind and, although reluctant to get out of bed because she was so snug, knew she had to silence that shutter.

As she sat up, the crucifix slid along its chain and she clasped it. It had been her mother’s and she only wore it on special occasions, never in bed. Memories of yesterday came flooding in and a sob broke from her. She would never again see her father’s smiling face or hear his deep voice speaking her name. For a moment her grief was such that she could not move, but the shutter banged again and a freezing draught blew across the room. She felt a dampness on her cheek. Pushing down the covers, she climbed out of bed.

No glow came from the charcoal brazier and the candle in her lantern had burnt down. How long had she been asleep? Was it late evening or the middle of the night? Her stomach rumbled. She had missed supper. Why hadn’t someone roused her? She remembered Mackillin and groaned. He would surely be thinking the worst of her. Then she asked herself why she should care about what he thought of her. In the morning he would be gone.

The shutter crashed against the stone wall outside once more and icy air gushed into the room. She shivered, remembering her father’s promise to bring her a sheet of the finest Flemish glass for her window opening. Her eyes were now accustomed to the darkness, but she wished she had a light and fumbled for a fresh candle and her tinder box in the small cupboard next to the bed.

Another gust of wind fluttered the long sleeves and hem of her gown and she pulled a face, realising it was unlikely she’d get a decent spark in such a strong draught. She placed both items on the chest and crossed to the window. She reached through the aperture and was almost blinded by a flurry of snowflakes. She gasped and frantically groped for the shutter. A sigh of relief escaped her as her fingers touched wood, but she had a struggle pulling the shutter towards her. At last she managed to do so and fastened the hook securely before stepping back. The clothing chest caught her behind her knees and she fell on to it.

Wiping her damp face with her sleeve, she looked around and could just about make out the outline of the door to the stairway. Her stomach rumbled again. Why hadn’t she been roused? Perhaps Mackillin had got Jack drunk on her father’s wine and cut his throat and was even now plundering the household. Fear clutched her heart. Yet surely she was allowing her imagination to run away with her. Jack trusted him. Even so, she would not rest until she saw for herself that all was well.

She groped for the candle and tinder box, but it was just as hopeless trying to get a spark in the dark. Hopefully, she would find her way downstairs without a light. If she failed, then she would return to her bedchamber. She would not think about Jack lying there with his throat cut—or demons and apparitions, which some said were the souls of the dead come back to haunt the living. She thought of her father and prayed that God would accept him into Heaven. Clutching her crucifix, she felt her way along the wall to the door.

Once outside, there was a lessening of the darkness and she noticed a faint light penetrating the lancet aperture on the stairway. She put her eye to it and saw that snow blanketed the landscape and was still falling in large, fat flakes. Her heart sank, realising she was not going to get rid of the barbaric lord after all. Using extreme caution, she continued down the steps, brushing the wall with her hand.

Once through the door at the bottom, she paused to get her bearings as there were no windows in the passageway. She could still hear the roaring of the gale, albeit the sound was fainter here. Her heart beat heavily as she moved forward through a darkness that seemed to press in on her like a living force. She strained her eyes and ears, alert to any danger. Her hand touched wood. A closed door. She passed it and came to another closed door. She walked on with more confidence, convinced that the kitchen door was straight ahead. She heard the squeak of a latch and started back as the door opened and the light from a lantern temporarily blinded her.

An expletive was swiftly smothered as someone reached out and seized her by the wrist. ‘God’s blood, lass! What are you doing creeping around in the dark? I could have hurt you,’ said Mackillin, lowering the lantern.

She caught a glimpse of his wild hair, unshaven rugged profile and words failed her. Light-headed with hunger and emotional strain, she swayed against him. He smothered another expletive and, placing an arm around her, half-carried her into the kitchen. She stirred in his arms and tried to push him away, but it was like trying to make a dint in a shield with a feather. ‘Let me go,’ she cried.

‘I’ll free you once I’m certain you aren’t going to swoon again.’

‘I did not swoon,’ she said indignantly.

‘You did.’ He placed the lantern on a table and sat down in a chair in front of the fire and drew her onto his knee.

‘What are you doing?’ Panic strengthened her will and she hit out at him.

‘Desist, woman! I intend you no harm, you little fool.’

‘I don’t believe you. Where’s Jack?’ She looked wildly about her.

‘Where any sensible person is at this time of night—in his bed. Now, don’t wriggle. I will release you if you promise to sit still and listen to me.’

She considered what he’d just said and calmed down. ‘You mean you’ll tell me what you were doing creeping out of the kitchen?’

‘I heard banging and wondered at first if it was some misguided traveller, who had lost his way and come seeking shelter,’ he said smoothly, not wanting to frighten her. ‘I had fallen asleep and had no idea what watch of the night it was when I woke. Not wanting to disturb those sleeping in the hall by opening the main door, and uncertain whether the traveller would be a friend or foe, I decided to make for the kitchen door. When I looked outside I realised that any traveller would have to be a madman to be out on such a night.’ His expression was grim. ‘It appears I will not be going anywhere in the morning.’

‘The snow might not be as deep as we fear,’ she said quickly.

‘Perhaps. I pray so. My enemies will take my land if I am delayed here too long.’ She wondered who his enemies were, but did not ask because he was speaking again. ‘What set you to wandering about the house?’ he asked.

‘The wind had blown my shutter loose and woke me up. I managed to fix it. I realised how hungry I was and came in search of food.’

‘Of course, you missed your supper. There is still food aplenty.’ She caught the gleam of his strong teeth in the firelight and the arms constraining her slackened.

She shot off his knee as if stung. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your bed, Lord Mackillin.’

She put some distance between them by going over to the table and leaning against it. She waited for him to leave the kitchen, but he made no move to do so. Tension stiffened her shoulders and she forced herself to relax and walk over to the fire, where an enormous log slumbered, its underbelly glowing red. She estimated it would last out the night, ensuring a fire would not have to be relit in the morning, a difficult task at times. A few feet away, her favourite mouser twitched in its sleep.

‘You remind me of night, all black and silver,’ said Mackillin abruptly.

His words startled her into staring at him. ‘What did you say?’

‘If you did not hear, I will not repeat it.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Sit down by the fire, mistress. I will fetch some bread and fowl. I have slept enough and who is to say that you might not hesitate to knife me if I were to slumber.’ His expressive eyes mocked her.

Several times he had shocked her by his words, but that he should believe she would stab him as he slept and the idea that he should wait on her were two things not to be tolerated. ‘I would not harm you. Indeed, if you are to extend your stay, you cannot continue to sleep in the hall. You need privacy. As for you fetching and carrying for me…nay, my lord, it is not right.’

‘I do not care whether it is right or wrong.’ His tone was adamant. ‘I am not so high and mighty that I cannot serve another. Did Christ not wait on his disciples during the last supper? No doubt the following days and weeks will prove difficult enough for you in the light of your father’s death, so take your ease and do not argue with me. And if you are worried about my hands being dirty, I’ve washed them.’

He left her to think on that while he fetched food and drink, trying not to dwell on how erotic he found her appearance in her mourning garb. He had to remind himself that she was the daughter of the house and that he could find a far more suitable bride in Scotland. He had almost made up his mind to marry Mary Armstrong. She was the daughter of one of his neighbours, an arrogant man who ruled his household with an iron rod. His wife had died in suspicious circumstances and Mackillin would like to rescue Mary from her father’s house.

Besides, his mother, the Lady Joan, had been a great friend of Mary’s mother, and she had spoken in favour of such an alliance years ago, although his father had been against it. There had been no love lost between the two men. The disagreement had resulted in one of their quarrels which always ended up with his mother preserving an icy silence towards her husband for days on end. As a young girl she had been carried across Mackillin’s father’s saddlebow on a border raid like a common wench and she had never forgiven him for treating her in such a fashion.

His mother had found no welcome in her future in-laws’ house, one reason being that she could never forget that she belonged to the highborn English family, the Percys. It was to them Mackillin had been sent after his half-brother, Fergus, had tried to kill him seventeen years ago, when he was eight years old. His Scottish half-brothers had resented him, almost as much as they hated his mother. His upbringing would have been less violent if they had been girls instead of boys, but then he might have stayed home instead of leaving to be educated in Northumberland and indulging his love of boats and travel.

Cicely decided that perhaps it was best to do what Mackillin said and sat in the chair he vacated. She stretched her cold feet towards the fire, not knowing what to make of the man. What kind of lord was it that waited on a woman? An unusual one who excused his lowly behaviour by speaking of Christ’s humility. She wondered in what other way he would surprise her during his sojourn in her home. What if he ended up staying a sennight or more? She was thankful there was still food in the storeroom: flour, raisins, a side of bacon, salted fish, smoked eel, a little butter, cheese, fresh and bottled fruit, honey, oats and barley. Also, enough logs remained piled high in one of the outhouses. The animals were not forgotten either and there was some straw and hay, as well as corn in the barn.

She heard a noise and, glancing over her shoulder, saw Mackillin carrying a platter. She rose hastily to her feet. ‘You should not be doing this, Lor—Mackillin,’ she said, taking the platter from him and placing it on the table.

He ignored her comment and put a napkin and knife beside the platter before leaving the kitchen. She sat down, wondering if he would return. No matter. She was famished and the chicken leg and slices of breast meat looked appetising. She picked up the meat and sank her teeth into it. It tasted so good that she closed her eyes in ecstasy.

‘This will wash it down,’ said a voice.

She opened her eyes and saw that Mackillin was holding a silver-and-glass pitcher of what appeared to be her father’s malmsey, a wine he had called the best in the world. ‘You’ve drunk some of that?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘Jack said it would go well with the pears and green cheese.’

‘But not chicken,’ she said firmly. ‘We always drink a white wine from a kinsman’s vineyard in Kent with fowl.’

‘We had some of that, too.’

She stared at him suspiciously. ‘My brother was not drunk when he went up to bed, was he?’

Mackillin raised his eyebrows. ‘Nay, lass, he wasn’t. I drank most of the white wine. Although I have to tell you that I have tasted better. Not your fault, but if I’d known I might be snowed in here, I would have thought of bringing some of my kinsman’s vintage from the Loire, instead of shipping it with a courier to my mother. Still, you have the malmsey and that will do you good.’ He added conversationally, ‘The grape used in making malmsey is from the Monemvasia vine, now grown in Madeira, but native to Greece. Sugar is also cultivated on the island and together they produce this sweet dessert wine.’

‘I wanted Father to take me with him on his travels,’ she murmured, watching Mackillin pour the tawny-coloured wine into a beautiful Venetian drinking vessel, which seemed out of place in the kitchen.

‘Perhaps one day someone else might take you there,’ he said, handing the glass to her. ‘Bon appetit, Mistress Cicely. I will leave you to enjoy your wine and see you in the morning.’

She murmured her gratitude, watching him leave the kitchen. He had left the lantern behind, its flame winking on the sparkling glass. Sipping the malmsey, she pondered the unusual behaviour of a certain Scottish lord and sensed it was even more imperative for her peace of mind that he left as soon as possible.

But it was not to be the following morning because although the snow had ceased to fall, it lay thickly over the fields and hills as far as the eye could see. The sky looked heavy with the threat of more to come.

‘I hope Matt reached York before the snow came,’ said Jack, his youthful face grim as he addressed his sister. ‘Perhaps he won’t ride on to Kingston-on-Hull when it clears, but come home.’

She nodded, gazing at the path that had been cleared through the snow to the outbuildings. Mackillin, Robbie and Tom had seen to the horses and Jack had fed the hens housed in the barn.

‘Even Father’s steward won’t be able to reach us while it is like this,’ said Cicely, chewing her lower lip. ‘His concern will be for the tenants’ flocks.’

‘And who can blame him? Even the best of shepherds will have difficulty keeping all their sheep alive in this weather. We can manage here without him.’ Jack stamped snow from his boots and glanced at their guest as they went indoors. ‘I pray you’ll forgive me, Mackillin. It’s my fault you’re stranded here.’

Mackillin shook his head. ‘Nay, lad. It is the fault of those murdering curs in Bruges. Besides, you have no control over the weather. We could have been on the road when the blizzard came and we’d have been caught out in the open. If I’m to be delayed, then best it be here.’

‘Come and warm yourselves by the fire,’ said Cicely. ‘I’m mulling ale and have asked Cook to fry some bacon collops. I thought you might be in need of a second breakfast.’

‘That’s a grand notion,’ said Mackillin, rolling the ‘r’ and smiling down at her. ‘Yet you must be cursing me at a time when you need peace and quiet to mourn your father.’

‘I deem the house is big enough for all of us to find peace in solitude if need be,’ said Cicely, her calm expression concealing the turmoil his nearness caused her. ‘As soon as possible we’ll have to get a message to Diccon, informing him of Father’s death, albeit we’ll most likely have to get in touch with Owain ap Rowan first.’

Mackillin’s brow furrowed. ‘I have heard the name of ap Rowan before.’

‘Owain ap Rowan is a horse breeder and has stud farms in the palatines of Chester and Lancaster,’ said Jack.

‘He’s a good man,’ said Cicely, fetching cups from a cupboard and placing them on a table. ‘He has travelled Europe, too. Diccon told me that the ap Rowans supplied horses to the present King Henry’s armies during the wars with France. He and Father were great friends.’

‘I deem that Master ap Rowan has several excellent qualities—but who is Diccon?’ asked Mackillin, watching her graceful figure return to the fireplace.

‘Our stepbrother,’ replied Jack.

‘We had hoped he would be home for the Christmas festivities,’ said Cicely, ladling the brew into cups, ‘but he never arrived.’

‘Cissie fears he might have got himself involved with the Yorkists’ cause,’ said Jack, grimacing.

Cicely tried to frown her brother down, not wanting Mackillin to know too much about Diccon’s affairs, but it was too late.

‘I met the Duke of York’s heir in Calais the other year. I can understand your stepbrother’s involvement with him,’ said Mackillin, catching that frown of hers and wondering what was behind it. ‘He spent a great deal of time talking to merchants and mariners. I saw your father there, too.’

‘Then it’s likely you met Diccon,’ said Jack. ‘Diccon Fletcher? He would have been with Father.’

‘In that case it’s highly likely that I did. I just need to think back to that time and I will remember him.’ Mackillin accepted the cup of steaming ale from Cicely. His hazel eyes washed slowly over her lovely pale face and he remembered the feel of her mouth beneath his and would have liked to have repeated the experience, but knew he had to resist such urges. Mary was to be his chosen bride. He did not love her, but then what had marriage to do with love? His father had supposedly fallen in love at first sight with his mother and what good had that done him? Mary would be grateful to him and get on with his mother and together they would organise his household. He would never beat Mary like her father did and he would do his best to make her happy. Although he did not care for Sir Malcolm Armstrong, it would be better to have him as an ally than an enemy.

‘Well, have you remembered Diccon?’ asked Jack.

Mackillin smiled. ‘Not yet. So what is it you fear? That in the power struggle between Lancaster and York, he will be caught in the middle and be lost to you?’

‘Aye. That is exactly what I fear,’ murmured Cicely, lifting her eyes to his rugged face. ‘We are betrothed and I have no wish to have him taken from me before we are even wed.’

Before Mackillin could assimilate her words, Jack burst out, ‘Father made no mention of such a betrothal.’

Cicely turned on him. ‘You know naught about it. I tell you I could have persuaded Father to change his mind about refusing to give Diccon my hand if he had not been killed.’ Her voice broke and, dropping the ladle, she would have fled the hall if Tabitha and Martha had not entered, carrying trays, at that moment.

‘The bacon collops, Mistress Cicely,’ said Martha, looking askance at her.

Cicely pulled herself together and returned to the table. To her relief, neither man mentioned her outburst, but instead spoke of the baggage that had been unloaded from the packhorses. Mackillin asked whether Jack wanted the packages moved or unpacked first and sorted out.

Jack hesitated. ‘Some goods are for customers and others gifts for family and the church. I had thought it was probably best to leave all until Matt returns—but with the weather the way it is it’ll give us something to do, unpacking and listing everything.’ He turned to his sister. ‘You can help me with that, Cissie.’

She had calmed down somewhat and agreed, stretching out a hand for her bacon collop on the platter in the middle of the table and placing it on a slice of bread. ‘Father promised me a sheet of Flemish glass for my bedchamber window. At this time of year so many draughts manage to get through the gaps between the shutters and frame.’

Jack turned to her and his eyes were bright. ‘He kept his promise as he always did. He purchased a new kind of glass, not so thick as that in my bedchamber and much clearer. The trouble was that it was too large to load on to the packhorses—as were some of his other purchases, such as the glass he bought for the village church in memory of our stepmother. The shipping agent is sending them by cart. They were packed carefully and I pray that neither gets broken on the way.’

‘Me, too,’ she murmured, thinking the glass would be a gift worth waiting for. She took a bite of her food before getting up and wandering over to the pile of baggage.

Mackillin and Jack followed her over, but no one made a move to unpack any of the goods immediately. Cicely was remembering other such times when her father had produced gifts for his womenfolk’s delectation.

Noticing the sadness in her face and guessing the reason, Mackillin sought to detract her thoughts. ‘There is a fine thirteenth-century stained-glass window in the Cathedral of St Maurice in Angers,’ he said.

His mention of the saint roused Cicely’s interest. ‘St Maurice is the patron saint of cloth-makers. Do they make cloth in Angers?’

He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I only know that the women are skilful in tapestry work.’

He had surprised her. ‘How do you know this?’

‘My mother visited her French kin in Angers as a young girl and a few years ago she asked me to purchase a tapestry for her.’

‘Isn’t Angers the main city of Anjou?’ she asked.

Mackillin nodded. ‘The Queen of England’s father, King René, has his court there.’

‘You have visited his court?’ asked Cicely.

A slight smile lifted the corner of Mackillin’s lips. ‘If I said aye, admit that would surprise you, lass.’ She flushed, but did not comment, and he added, ‘I was no lord then, but he knew the Percys and so welcomed me. René is a good man, cultured, but with no airs and graces. He likes to talk to his subjects and visitors alike. We discussed painting, music, the law and mathematics.’

Indeed, he had amazed her, thought Cicely, finding it difficult to imagine this man conversing on such topics.

Jack groaned. ‘I wish you hadn’t mentioned mathematics. Father was adamant that every merchant should have a knowledge of the subject. There are books he wanted me to read. That’s why he wished to speak to Master Caxton. I never thought being a merchant would involve so much study.’

Mackillin winked at Cicely and instinctively she smiled. For a moment their eyes held and it was as if a flame passed between them. Her pulses leapt and she thought, this can’t be happening! Determinedly, she looked away. Just because he was proving not as uncouth as she had first believed him to be, that did not mean he was to be trusted. She spotted the rolled pallets and blankets in a corner and faced him again. ‘I will have the best bedchamber prepared for you.’

‘I would appreciate that…and a basin of hot water would not go amiss,’ he said, rasping the stubble on his chin with the back of his hand.

Jack swallowed the last bite of his bacon collop. ‘We can do better than that for you, Mackillin. Adjacent to the best bedchamber is a room with a tub.’

‘Aye,’ said Cicely, her eyes brightening. ‘I’m sure your lordship will benefit from a soak in hot water and some clean raiment.’

Mackillin desired only a few things more than sinking his smelly and aching body in a tub of steaming water and to don the clean raiment in his saddlebag, and he realised at the top of the list was an urge to bed the lass in front of him. Knowing that was out of the question, he teased her instead. ‘I could catch ma death of cold if I were to wash, lass.’

He had to be jesting, thought Cicely and said firmly, ‘Then put on an extra garment.’

Jack grinned. ‘I deem he does not wish to give you more work, Cissie. I saw Mackillin immerse himself in a barrel of water aboard ship when we crossed the sea. I wouldn’t have done it. The wind was freezing and from the north.’

‘Hush, laddie,’ said Mackillin, laughter in his eyes. ‘Your sister might start changing her mind about me.’

Cicely would not allow herself to be drawn on that subject and only said, ‘Then you would like the tub filled?’

‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘It will be done, even if I have to wind up the buckets of water myself,’ she said, picking up one of the parcels and trying to guess its contents by feeling it.

Instantly the laughter died in his eyes and he looked horrified. ‘Nay, mistress, it is not a task for you. Robbie will help me to draw water. We’ll also fill the empty water butts. It will help pass the time and prevent my body from getting soft…. And before you remind me that lords don’t do such menial work,’ he added, ‘I tell you that this one has done plenty in the past. We’ll make a start now. Who’s to say when next I’ll be able to bathe if the ground freezes and the water in it, too?’

She put the parcel down. ‘Then we would have to break the ice and when the water butts ran out we’d dig snow and melt it in pans over the fire,’ she said promptly.

‘You’re a lass of good sense,’ he said gravely.

She flushed with pleasure at the compliment and watched as he and Robbie left the hall. ‘Has Mackillin mentioned a wife to you, Jack?’ she asked casually.

He hesitated. ‘Why don’t you ask him if you’re interested? I’m certain Father did not wish you to marry Diccon.’

‘If he did not speak to you about it, how do you know?’ demanded Cicely.

Jack’s expression changed. ‘Take my word for it, Cissie. He had someone else in mind for you.’ Before she could ask whom, he hurried after Mackillin and Robbie.

Frustrated, Cicely went upstairs to prepare the best bedchamber for Mackillin.

It was to be a couple of hours before the tub was ready and Mackillin followed her upstairs. His eyes were drawn to the seductive sway of her hips in the black gown and he wondered what Diccon Fletcher was thinking, to leave her here unprotected when he must have known her father was away in Europe. He remembered Diccon now. A pleasant-looking young man, hot for adventure and keen for advancement. After Nat Milburn had introduced them, they had later met in a tavern in company with the young Edward of York and some of his followers. Diccon had drunk too much and spoken of King Henry failing to keep his word and reward him for services rendered. Mackillin did not doubt for a moment that Diccon was now Edward’s man. It concerned him only as far as it would affect Cicely’s future. Nat Milburn’s dying words made him uneasy in the light of what he now knew about his daughter and her relationship with Diccon. What if he was killed in battle? Who would she marry then?

He told himself that it was not his concern, he was for Scotland and a bride of his choosing. Even so he could not take his eyes from Cicely as, holding the lantern high, she turned right and led him along a passage. Now he was only a pace or so behind her and could smell the perfume of her hair. He was reminded of the camomile daisy that grew in profusion on his French kinsman’s estate. He had seen the women gathering the flower heads and drying them to use in their washing water, but their scent had never affected him as it did now.

She stopped in front of a large, carved door that stood slightly ajar and pushed it wide. ‘I hope you will be comfortable here, Mackillin.’

‘I’m sure I shall. You can have no idea of the state of some of the places I’ve slept in,’ he said, indicating that she precede him into the bedchamber.

She hesitated, but then told herself it was unlikely he would make advances to her now he knew that she was the daughter of the house, only to recall seconds later his pulling her on to his lap in the middle of the night. If only Diccon would return. Surely she would not be so affected by this man’s presence if he was near?

She placed the lantern next to a bowl of dried rose petals, lavender and gillyflower heads on an ornate circular table. This stood beneath the polished metal of an oval gilt-framed mirror. On the other walls there were several tapestries. The sky had darkened and snow was falling again, but the chill had been taken from the room by a charcoal brazier. The bedchamber was bright with the light from several costly beeswax candles.

It was obvious to Mackillin that much care and money had been lavished on the room. He glanced at the bed that was of a width in which two people could lie in comfort. Its hangings and coverlet were made from a damasked cloth, woven in reds and yellows, and he imagined tossing Cicely on the bed, drawing the curtains and ridding her of clothing before smothering her body with kisses. He felt himself grow hard and forced himself to look away from the bed.

There were two armoires, as well as a large carved chest, and underfoot a floor covering thick enough for his boots to leave an impression. If he had not known already that Jack and Cicely’s father was a rich merchant, then he would have recognised just how wealthy he was now. He remembered his parents having separate bedchambers and neither were half as well appointed as this one. He could have laughed out loud at the thought of his mother being introduced to Cicely and finding her wanting as a suitable wife for him because she was a commoner. She had more grace and spirit and good taste than many a lady he had met in his Percy kinsman’s Northumberland castle.

He felt out of place in his mud-splattered and smelly garments and a desire to improve his standing in Cicely’s eyes swelled inside him. ‘This tub?’ he asked, noticing his saddlebags had been unpacked by Robbie and raiment laid out on the bed.

‘Through here,’ said Cicely, casting a glance at the garments.

She led him over to a small door that stood ajar in the corner of the chamber. As she did so there came a sound at the outer door and a discreet knock. They both turned their heads to see Tom, carrying a steaming bucket. ‘More water for his lordship, Mistress Cicely. Shall I top up the tub?’

‘Aye, Tom.’

Mackillin held up a hand. ‘Nay, man. Just place the bucket inside the room. I’ll need to test the water first. Do you know where Robbie is?’

‘He’s seeing how the horses are doing.’

Mackillin’s brow puckered. ‘I’ll need you then to help me off with my boots. Have you any skill with barbering?’

‘Aye, my lord, I used to shave my grandfather,’ said Tom.

Mackillin nodded and flashed a smiling glance at Cicely. ‘My thanks, lass. I’ll not keep you.’

She hurried from the chamber and forced her mind along different channels from that of him shaved and bathed. She had not seen her brother for a while and wondered if he had placed some of the goods that had been unpacked in his bedchamber. She knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she opened it and peeped inside. It was empty.

She searched for him downstairs and when she did not find him, wondered if he was in the stables with Robbie. She hoped he had not done too much by using his damaged arm to cut cords. She decided to return upstairs, wanting to check with Tom that Mackillin had all he needed. On passing the chest in the passage, she noticed a tablet of soap on its lid and thought she must have forgotten to place it alongside the drying cloths in the tub room. She picked it up and hurried to the bedchamber. The door was ajar and she called Tom’s name. When he did not answer, she decided that most likely he was with Mackillin. She could hear splashing from the adjoining room, which surely meant his lordship was already in the tub.

‘Tom!’ she called. No response. ‘Mackillin!’

She hesitated before knocking on the antechamber door and peering inside. She could see the tub and a few wisps of steam, but no sign of either man. A whooshing noise caused her to almost jump out of her skin. A head broke the surface of the water and then shoulders and chest. She gaped, staring at the double-wing shaped mat of dark coppery curls and the long silvery scar beneath the left collar bone. She felt such a heat inside her. As if in a trance, she watched him reach blindly for the sword lying on the drying cloth on the stool.

She scooped up his dirty garments as he flicked back his trimmed hair and stood up, water streaming from his body. Cicely gasped and closed her eyes tightly. She had seen her brothers naked in a tub when they were tiny, but never a fully grown man exhibiting such masculinity. She opened her eyes, threw the soap in his direction and fled.