Читать книгу Bride of Lochbarr - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 8

“SO HE TOOK the tray right out of my hands and served them himself,” Polly said breathlessly. “And handsome? Holy Mother Mary, I’ve never seen a man so fair. I thought I’d faint when our hands touched, I truly did.”

Marianne looked away from the cook to the little group of servants clustered around the very excited Polly, who was describing something that had transpired in the hall before she’d arrived and angered Nicholas even more. She was rather curious as to which man had taken pity on the nervous Polly, but it was time they all got back to work. It was bad enough Nicholas was obviously furious with her; she didn’t need a ruined evening meal to make things worse.

“That haunch of venison needs turning,” she said to the spit boy. “And the rest of you have other things to do, do you not?”

The lad immediately went back to slowly turning the spit. The scullery maid returned to her pots, and the two other female servants started kneading dough again. Three men hurried out of the kitchen completely.

“Watch out it’s not burnt on one side and raw on the other, eh?” Emile, the cook, commanded the spit boy before raising his eyes to heaven as if begging deliverance from the stupidity of servants.

“I’m sure the meat will be fine,” Marianne assured Emile, hoping she was right. “Is there anything else—?”

“Non, my lady, non,” Emile declared, slicing the air with his hand. “I understand. Twenty more and Scots, too.”

He sniffed as he headed for a pot boiling over the fire. He stirred its contents, which were sending forth a delicious smell of beef and gravy. “They will be no trouble. The Scots will eat anything. Even my worst meal will be wonderful to them.”

Relieved that Emile wasn’t going to panic or lose his temper, Marianne turned her attention to another matter. Gesturing for Polly to join her, she retreated to a corner, away from the bustling of the cook and his helpers. “I heard what happened in the hall.”

“Oh, my lady, please, don’t be angry!” Polly cried, anxiously wringing her hands. “I couldn’t help it. He just did it. Took the tray right away from me. What was I to do?”

“You did nothing wrong in the hall, Polly. That’s not why I wanted to speak with you.” Marianne delicately cleared her throat. “You, um, seem quite taken with the Scot who helped you.”

Polly turned as red as a ripe apple and stared at the floor.

“Of course, that was a kind thing for him to do,” Marianne went on gently. She knew better than to lecture. The Reverend Mother’s lectures had more often had the opposite effect than the one she intended; she’d made sin seem exciting rather than something to be avoided.

“However, I must warn you that many men think a woman’s gratitude should be expressed in one particular fashion, and we don’t know if that Scot is such a man or not.”

Polly looked up, her brow wrinkled, as if she didn’t understand.

A year or two in the convent hearing the stories some of the girls had to tell, Marianne reflected, and she wouldn’t be so confused. “I mean,” she explained, “that he might think you’re so grateful, you’ll give yourself to him.”

Polly’s eyes lit up.

This was not the reaction Marianne had expected. “Or that you ought to, whether you’re willing or not,” she added significantly.

Polly gulped and went back to staring at the floor.

“So I think tonight, you should stay away from the Scots. All of them.”

“Yes, my lady,” Polly murmured, her voice so low, Marianne could scarcely hear her.

Nevertheless hoping the young woman appreciated that she was trying to help, Marianne said, “Now you may go and tell the alewife we’ll probably need three more casks for tonight.”

“Yes, my lady,” the maidservant murmured before she hurried away.

“Marianne!”

At the sound of her brother’s enraged voice, Marianne cringed, then turned toward the door leading to the hall.

Nicholas stood just inside the entrance, his hands on his hips, his dark brows lowered, his expression wrathful. He imperiously pointed to the door leading to the yard. “Outside, Marianne, now!”

God help her, this was going to be worse than she’d feared. Yet somehow, she’d have to try to make him understand that she’d only been trying to help.

Once outside, a breeze caught Marianne’s garments. It wasn’t a chill draft such as she always felt in the castle, but a warm gust of air with the hint of the tang of the sea, some miles east. The clouds parted, giving glimpses of bright blue sky.

Nicholas stamped his way across the courtyard ahead of her. Skirting the puddles, she followed him to a secluded area between the mason’s hut and a wattle-and-daub storehouse, away from where the laborers were building the inner curtain wall.

“What the devil was the meaning of that little performance?” Nicholas demanded when they were alone, crossing his arms, his sword still swinging at his side from his brisk pace.

“I didn’t mean to offend or upset you, Nicholas,” she hastened to assure him. “I was only doing what I’d been taught, to show you that—”

“You shouldn’t have come to the hall and you damn well shouldn’t have invited those men to stay.”

“I didn’t invite them. I was sure, as overlord of Beauxville, that you had. That’s what the holy sisters taught me an overlord should do.”

“Don’t quote the holy sisters’ ideas of etiquette to me,” he retorted.

Clearly, it was wrong to assume even a Norman nobleman behaved like a Norman nobleman in this godforsaken place.

In spite of her mistake, she tried to salvage her plan. “I was only trying to be a good chatelaine to you, and take care of your guests.”

“Those men are not my guests and this isn’t Normandy.”

As if she needed reminding. “No, I realize that.”

His eyes narrowed.

She hurried on, desperately trying to make him understand why she’d done what she had. “I wanted to show you what I’ve been taught, at your great expense, to prove to you that the money hadn’t been wasted and that I deserve a Norman husband, at the very least.”

“You could have spared yourself the effort,” Nicholas snapped. “You could act like the queen and it wouldn’t make a difference to me. In a se’en night, you’re marrying Hamish Mac Glogan if I have to lock you in your chamber and put a guard outside the door to make sure of it.”

He stepped closer, glaring at her. “Do I have to put a guard on you, Marianne?”

“No, Nicholas, you don’t. I understand,” she replied, because to her sorrow and despair, she did. Her brother’s mind was made up, and there was nothing she could say or do that would make him change it.

“Good. And stay out of the hall tonight. Those are the most arrogant, insolent Scots I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet, and I won’t have them staring at my sister.”

“I have no wish to be the object of any man’s impertinent attention, either,” she answered haughtily, her pride roused.

Nicholas didn’t look quite so angry. “Good. Now go to your room and stay there.”

“Gladly,” she said, turning on her heel and walking away from her brother.

And his plans for her future.

THE MOON ROSE nearly full. Marianne had counted back the days from the time she’d last seen it and realized it was waning. If she wanted to flee with the moon to light her way, she dare not delay.

Sadly, she had no choice except to flee, no matter how dangerous it was. It was either stay and marry Hamish Mac Glogan, or escape Beauxville and take her chances.

Clutching a bundle of clothing and shoes against her chest, she left her bedchamber and slowly crept down the curved wall-stairs leading to the hall. She had to get past all the men and hounds sleeping there, and across the courtyard. She’d slip out the postern gate to the river, steal a boat and make her way to a fishing village by the sea. From there, she could purchase passage to York and home to Normandy.

She fingered her mother’s crucifix around her neck and hoped it, and her ribbons and perhaps a gown or two, would fetch enough for her journey.

If the postern gate was locked and guarded, she’d have no choice but to climb over an unfinished wall, although that would take more time and run more risk that she’d be seen by the guards at the gatehouse towers.

She reached the hall. Fortunately, her brother was extremely lax in religious matters, so instead of Matins being said, everyone in the castle except the guards on duty were asleep. Unfortunately, in addition to the men who usually slept in the hall—the garrison soldiers, male servants, masons and laborers—she had those Scotsmen to worry about. At least the female servants slept in their own quarters above the kitchen.

She peered into the dark hall. Although the central fire had been banked, she could see the huddled outlines of the slumbering men and dogs. The Scots were easy to distinguish—they’d simply wrapped themselves in the long lengths of cloth they wore as their main garment and lain down seemingly where they’d stood. She quickly and instinctively made a count of their number.

One of them was missing and as she scanned the huddled bodies, she realized who it was—the handsome, muscular one.

Had he been the one Polly was talking about? Probably.

Perhaps her words had been no more effective than the Reverend Mother’s, and Polly was expressing her “gratitude” this very moment.

As troubling as that thought was, she couldn’t let any concern for Polly’s welfare impede her plans. She had to get away, and she had to get away tonight. Keeping to the walls, she sidled toward the side door leading to the kitchen.

The kitchen was just as dark as the hall, and stifling. The lingering odors of smoke, grease, leeks and spices filled her nostrils, and she could feel the sweat dripping down her back as she studied the room illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the high, square windows. She made out the central worktable, and the barrels by the door. The stack of wood closer to the hearth. The spoons and bowls piled on the board at the side. The piscina, a basin built into the outer wall of the building.

The spit boy lay on the floor by the entrance to the buttery, as if he were guarding the ale and wine, which perhaps he was. He rolled onto his back and muttered something.

Fearful he was waking, she swiftly made her way around the worktable to the door, lifted the latch as quickly as she dared and slipped out into the chill air of the evening, which seemed blessedly cool.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Indeed, the moon was almost too brilliant, making it harder for her to hide. Nevertheless, she welcomed the illumination. She didn’t know the land, and she didn’t want to wander about a dark, unfamiliar countryside.

Most of the walls weren’t finished, so there was no wall walk for patrolling soldiers. The gatehouse was nearly complete, though, and Nicholas had set watchmen on the towers there. They would be the ones most likely to spot somebody running through the courtyard.

She watched the towers for what seemed like an age before she could be sure the guards were looking not into the courtyard, but out across the river valley. Then, summoning her resolve, she dashed to the alley between the mason’s hut and the storeroom where Nicholas had upbraided her that day.

No one called out. No alarm sounded. She’d managed the first part of her escape undetected.

Taking a deep breath, she leaned back against the small wattle-and-daub storehouse and said a silent prayer of thanks.

Suddenly a man—a broad-shouldered man in the outlandish skirted garment of a Scot and a sleeveless shirt—appeared at the other end of the alley.

Before she could recover from the shock and run or hide, he quietly addressed her in French. “Bit of an odd time for a stroll, isn’t it, my lady?”

She recognized that voice. Thank God it wasn’t Nicholas, or one of his men—but what was that Scot doing here? And where was Polly?

She froze as a guard called out a challenge.

Had they been seen? Had that lascivious Scot cost her the chance of escape?

Mercifully, another man’s voice answered, calm and steady. The guards hadn’t seen her, or the Scot.

Yet.

She spotted the open door to the mason’s hut to the right of the Scot. Hurrying forward, she shoved him inside, coming in after him.

He never made a sound as the wooden door hinged with leather strips swung shut behind them. The only light filtered through cracks in the wall and the shutters over the window.

The Scot seemed taller in the darkness. Silhouetted against the wall of the hut, his body appeared huge, with his long, bare, muscular legs and strong, equally bare arms.

Perhaps this was a mistake. But before she could leave, he spoke.

“Why, my lady, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he said, his deep voice low and slightly husky.

“Be quiet,” she commanded in a whisper. “Or do you want the guards to catch you here, where you have no right to be?”

“No, I don’t want the guards to find me here,” he answered quietly. “But unless they can see through walls and hear like dogs, I doubt they will. They’re too far away, and too busy looking for enemies beyond the walls.”

“Where’s Polly?”

“Who?”

“Polly. The maidservant who served the wine.”

The Scot strolled toward her. “Ah. The one with the mole on her breast?”

As if he could fool her with his bogus innocence. She knew full well the deceit men were capable of. “Yes. Where is she?”

“I have no idea.”

Giving him a cold stare, she backed away from him until her body collided with a workbench covered with masons’ tools—chisels and trowels, levels and measuring sticks. She set her bundle down, so that her hands were free. She could defend herself now, if she had to. “I don’t believe you. I’m sure you were with her.”

“I’m sure I wasn’t. I think I’d remember if I were.”

Splaying her hands behind her and leaning back, her fingers encountered a chisel. Thrilled that she had some kind of weapon, her hand closed around it. “Then what are you doing skulking about my brother’s castle?”

“Searching for the plans to this fortress.”

No spy would confess so quickly and so easily, to anyone. “You must think I’m a simpleton.”

He strolled closer. “Whatever I think of you, my lady, I don’t think you’re dim-witted.”

She swallowed hard.

Suddenly, his hand shot out and grabbed hers, tightening until she dropped the chisel.

“Were you really planning to attack me with that?” he asked as he let go of her.

She rubbed her sore hand and didn’t answer.

“You’re quite safe with me, my lady. My taste doesn’t run to Normans, even ones as beautiful as you.”

She’d never before felt simultaneously insulted and flattered.

Perhaps this was his way of trying to confuse her. “What are you doing outside the hall?” she demanded, although that in itself was no crime. “Answer me honestly, or I’ll call the guard.”

“You won’t do that.”

She’d heard some Scots had what they called the Sight, the ability to see things by supernatural means, things they couldn’t possibly know otherwise. Yet surely he didn’t have such a power. “Oh yes, I will.”

“No, you won’t,” he answered, reaching around her for the chisel, coming so close, she could feel his breath warm on her cheek.

Gripping the edge of the table with both hands, she froze until he retreated.

“You won’t because then you’d have to explain what you’re doing wandering about at this time of night and with a bundle in your hands,” he said as he toyed with the chisel. “I’m thinking you had a clandestine rendezvous planned, although sadly not with me.” He nodded at the bundle. “And you’ve thoughtfully brought a blanket to lie on and perhaps some wine to drink.”

“What a base suggestion!”

“I didn’t mean to be insulting,” he replied as he tossed the chisel back onto the table, close enough for her to reach. “I’m impressed you planned so well.”

Now she really was insulted. “I am not some hussy of the sort you’re obviously used to.”

The Scot strolled over to another table and workbench. “What else could lead a beautiful Norman lady to sneak around alone in her brother’s fortress in the middle of the night?” he mused aloud. “Perhaps it’s a sign that all is not well with the lady.” He turned to regard her steadily. “I could be mistaken, of course. I’d be glad to think I was, and that nothing is amiss with you.”

He sounded completely sincere. Yet she’d heard enough stories in the convent to know better than to take any man’s words at face value, no matter how sincere he sounded.

So she lied, easily and without compunction. “I couldn’t sleep and decided to take some linen to the kitchen to be washed in the morning. I heard noises and thought it was a cat. I wanted to chase it outside, lest it make a mess of the masons’ things.”

“Really?” the Scot answered. He lazily picked up some other tools one at a time and examined them. “You didn’t think it might be somebody up to no good? You weren’t bravely coming to confront an enemy?”

“I wouldn’t be so foolish as to confront an armed man when I have only a bundle of laundry. And I don’t think any intelligent man would attack the sister of Sir Nicholas de Beauxville in his own fortress, or confess a crime to her face.”

The Scot put down a trowel. “This place is Dunkeathe, not Beauxville.”

“Since my brother has possession of it, he can call it whatever he likes.”

“Aye, so he may, and so might the Normans, but to the Scots it is, and always will be, Dunkeathe.”

“Proudly spoken, but whatever it’s called, I want to know what you’re really doing out of the hall in the middle of the night.”

He tilted his head and studied her a moment before answering. “All right then, my lady, the truth. It’s just as I said. I was trying to find the plans to the castle.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It has to be obvious I’m up to no good.”

Then his full lips curved upward into a devilish smile that seemed to reach right into her breast and set her heart to beating as it never had before. “And since I’m not dim-witted, either, I’m sure that you’re doing something you don’t want your brother to know about, whether it’s meeting a lover or not.”

She reached for her bundle. “I told you, I’m taking some linen to be laundered.”

“When you’re ill? That’s what your brother said when you weren’t at the evening meal.”

“I am recovered.”

“And making bundles, which you then carry out of your quarters in the middle of the night, heading for the postern gate. If I were to make a guess, Lady Marianne, I’d say you were running away.”

“Why would I run away?”

“I can think of plenty of reasons you’d want to flee. For one, that brother of yours is as arrogant as they come. It must be difficult living under his thumb.”

“He’s a wonderful brother.”

“Well, maybe for a Norman, he is. Thank God, I wouldn’t know.” The Scot took a step closer. “Whether he is or not, you’re willing to risk fleeing his castle and traveling alone rather than stay here.”

“Even if that were true—which it isn’t—is traveling alone in this country such a great risk? Are you saying I should be afraid of the Scots?”

“There are men who would steal cattle roaming about. Alone on the open road, you’d be very tempting for every outlaw between here and York.”

She fought the urge to believe that he cared about her welfare. Most men were scoundrels and liars; even her own brother would use her to further his selfish ambitions. “If I were running away, I’d have enough sense to stay off the open road.”

“And not get lost?”

“I need only get to the nearest church or monastery or convent by myself. They would give me sanctuary.”

That would also be the first place her brother would look for her, which is why she wouldn’t risk doing that. It had to be the village, then York, then France.

The Scot came closer. “If you were running away, my lady, I’d think again. Or are you quite certain you’d have nothing to fear from the cattle thieves because they’re Normans, too?”

“I don’t believe the men who took your cattle came from here,” she replied, hoping it was true, although she wouldn’t put it past some of the soldiers her brother had hired.

“Then so much the worse for you—or any lone woman—who meets them.”

The Scot’s gaze searched her face. When he spoke, his voice was firm, and stern. “Does he beat you?”

She instinctively drew back, putting a little more distance between them. “Who?”

“Your brother.”

“No!”

“He doesn’t…lay hands on you?”

She guessed what terrible thing he was implying. “Never!”

His stern visage relaxed. “So why do you want to run away?”

“I don’t!”

“I think you’re lying. I think you desperately want to get away from here. I just don’t know why.”

Her reasons simply couldn’t be important to him, no matter how concerned he sounded. “You have no idea what I want,” she replied, mustering her resolve. “I’m a Norman lady and you’re nothing but a…but a…”

“What am I but a man who doesn’t want to see you hurt—or worse? Do you really find that so hard to believe?” he asked softly, laying his strong hands lightly on her shoulders, the slight pressure warm and surprisingly welcome.

But it shouldn’t be. She should slap his face for daring to touch her. She should raise the alarm. Call out the guards. Shout for help. She should push him away. She shouldn’t let him pull her into his arms, as he was doing at that very moment.

Her bundle fell to the ground, the garments and shoes tumbling to the ground like so many scattered leaves.

She shouldn’t put her arms around his waist and look up into his handsome face. She should try to get away from him and his deep, seductive voice. She shouldn’t feel this thrilling excitement coursing through her body, or allow the images bursting into her head.

Yet in spite of all the inner warnings and orders, and all the things she’d heard about men and their evil ways, Marianne closed her eyes in anticipation and welcomed the first touch of the Scot’s lips upon hers. They were as light as the caress of a feathertip before they settled and moved with slow, sinuous deliberation.

This was how that girl under the tree must have felt, except this was no stripling youth kissing her. This was a warrior in his prime, handsome and confident.

Nothing could prepare her for the astonishing reality of his passionate kiss. Not the girl and the boy beneath the tree. Not the whispered descriptions from the other girls in the dark at the convent. Not a troubadour’s ballad.

Nothing.

As the Scot’s arms tightened around her, a longing as powerful as the need for liberty rooted her to the spot and urged her to surrender to the passion surging through her body, enflamed by his kiss.

He tasted of wine and warmth, his lips soft yet firm, too, as they slid over hers with excruciating, provoking leisure. Leaning against him, soft and yielding, a whimper of yearning escaped her throat, a little note of longing for something more that his kiss promised.

He shifted, and his embrace tightened. His mouth pressed harder, and his tongue touched her lips, preparing to part them.

A sound interrupted the silence: somebody drawing water from the well. Two women’s voices talking about the fine weather.

The kitchen servants, always the first to rise, were already setting about their tasks. Soon, the guards would be changing, and the masons would be coming.

With a horrified gasp, Marianne twisted out of the Scot’s grasp. She mustn’t be found here—with him.

“Let me go or I’ll call the guards!” she cried, meaning it, as she frantically picked up her things.

She never should have weakened and given in to her lustful impulses. What would the Reverend Mother and Father Damien say if they could see her now? What would her friends think of her? God help her, what would Nicholas do?

“You won’t call the guards,” the Scot said firmly, backing away, his body blocking the single exit.

“If you don’t get away from the door, I certainly will,” she countered, whirling around to face him, holding her clothes against her chest.

His expression hard and as cold as Nicholas’s could be, the Scot shook his head. “Oh no, you won’t, my fine Norman lady.” He nodded at her clothes. “That’s no bundle of laundry and you weren’t on your way to do washing. You were running away, until we met here. Why, I’m not sure, but I am sure you’ll never tell your brother that we met, because then you’d have to explain yourself.”

“And you thought to take advantage of that, and me, didn’t you?” she charged.

His whole body tensing, the Scot spread his hands wide. “I’d never take advantage of a woman, and I’m not keeping you here against your will. I haven’t done anything against your will.”

“Yes, you have!”

“No, I have not, my lady, and you know it.”

“You were trying to seduce me.”

“If I’d been trying, my lady, you’d have been seduced.”

“Of all the insolent, despicable, arrogant—! Let me pass!”

He stepped away from the door. “With pleasure, my lady. But we both know that you enjoyed that kiss as much as I.”

Marianne knew nothing of the kind. She only knew that staying with him had been a terrible mistake, and not just because of that kiss. She’d lost her chance to escape, and who could say when she would get another before the week was up?

“Fool!” she muttered, silently cursing both herself and the Scot as she pushed past him and hurried out the door.