Читать книгу Norwyck's Lady - Margo Maguire - Страница 12

Morning dawned bright and sunny. Marguerite gazed out the window of her chamber and realized that her vision was completely clear. She could see a vast expanse of sandy beach, and make out several gulls flying high above the waves.

She sent a silent prayer of thanks that her vision had been restored. Now if only her memory would return…

On the opposite wall, another window overlooked a courtyard. Marguerite crossed the room and gazed down, anxious to see if all was clear there, too.

She saw a number of Norwyck’s knights on a practice field beyond the courtyard, engaged in swordplay. Several of the men were on horseback, and one in particular worked at a quintain at the opposite end of the courtyard. His movements were powerful, yet agile, striking quickly and mightily, then ducking the reprisal.

Marguerite knew at once that this man, wearing naught but a light undertunic that was damp with his exertions, was Bartholomew Holton. His hair was bound at his nape, and she sensed without seeing that his facial expression would be fierce.

A shudder ran through her and she whirled away from the window. Her unruly response to the young lord was unacceptable. The man had no liking for her, and she had no business having the kind of reaction he kindled in her. Besides, ’twas entirely possible she had her own young man or a husband waiting somewhere for her. Mayhap even children.

The thought of children gave her pause. Marguerite ran her hands down her bodice, across her breasts and to her belly. Had an infant once nestled in her womb? Suckled at her breast?

She did not think so, though she could not be certain. The children whose faces came to her at odd times must have some significance to her. Who were they? Why did she see them every time she closed her eyes?

Rather than dwell on a puzzle that served only to upset her, Marguerite pressed one hand to her heart and turned her attention elsewhere. She let her gaze alight upon the furnishings of the circular room.

The bed, she already knew, was a comfortable one, with rich linen fittings and warm woolen blankets. Two chairs flanked a stuffed settle near the fireplace, where a fire blazed cozily. There were two large wall hangings that Marguerite was able to see clearly now, beautiful, colorful tapestries depicting happy times.

A short, stuffed bench sat before the wash table, and a small mirror hung on the wall above it.

Two closed trunks perched against the wall opposite the bed, and upon inspection of the first, Marguerite discovered a cache of gowns, shifts and hose—among them the clothes Eleanor had brought up the day before. At the bottom were shoes, which Marguerite took out. When she tried to slip her feet in, she discovered a collection of jewels in the toes.

There were rings and chains of gold, with an assortment of colorful gems set into them. Marguerite weighed the pieces in her hands. Eleanor must have put them here, she thought. The child was well-meaning and eager to please, and just young enough that she would not understand the value of such jewelry.

Marguerite put the treasure into the toe of the hose, then placed the sock carefully at the bottom of the trunk. She would see that the gold and precious gems were returned to their rightful place as soon as she was able. In the meantime, she opened the other trunk to see if any more treasures awaited.

Inside were two musical instruments, a psaltery and a gittern. For some reason Marguerite could not fathom, these instruments seemed more precious to her than the gems she’d hidden away in the other trunk.

Carefully, she lifted them out and set them on the bed. Each instrument was beautifully made, from the highly polished wood to the tightly woven strings. Marguerite brushed her hand across the strings of the gittern, causing a discordant sound.

The instruments, the strings, the sounds, seemed familiar. She knew the gittern needed to be tuned, and she tightened or loosened the pegs accordingly. Afterward, when she strummed, it sounded right to her ear, though something was missing.

She did not have time to ponder the question, though, for the door to the chamber opened and Eleanor came in. “You have Mama’s gittern!” the child said as she approached the bed.

“Oh, ’twas your mother’s?” Marguerite asked. “I’m sorry. I’ll put it—”

“Nay, can you play it?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Try.”

Marguerite took the neck of the instrument in her left hand and strummed the strings with her right, as she had done before Eleanor had come in. She placed the fingers of her left hand over different strings and elicited various notes when she did so. As she strummed the instrument, a pleasing sequence of sounds filled the room.

She knew how to play!

When Eleanor clapped her hands, Marguerite looked at the child in astonishment, then back at the gittern.

“Play another!”

“I…something is not…” Marguerite said, frowning. She was completely puzzled. She felt entirely at ease with the instrument in her hands, yet something was wrong.

“I know!” Eleanor turned, reached into the trunk and pulled out a small object. “Kathryn calls this a plec…A plec—”

“A plectrum,” Marguerite said, though she could not say how she had come up with the word. It had just suddenly appeared upon her tongue.

“Aye,” Eleanor said. “And when Kate tries to play, the sounds she makes…” The child wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

Marguerite took the quill from the child and began to play a tune, using the plectrum. The instrument now felt much more natural in her hands, and Marguerite sensed that she must have played many times before. When she noticed the calluses upon the fingertips of her left hand, there could be no doubt that she was a practiced musician.

“I forgot,” Eleanor said. “Sir Walter sent me to see if you are hungry. Are you able to come down and break your fast with us in the great hall, or would you rather have a tray up here?”

Marguerite hardly knew how to respond. She’d been cloistered in this tower room ever since awakening without her memory, and she felt strangely timid about leaving. “I don’t think your brother—”

“Bartie is training on the practice field with the rest of the knights,” Eleanor said, unconcerned. She lifted the lid of the trunk that contained the clothing, and pulled out a bundle of dark green cloth. “He will be out there for hours.”

Marguerite set down the gittern and took the gown from Eleanor. ’Twas a lovely creation of velvet, with contrasting panels of gold and white silk. “Did this belong to your mother?” she asked the child.

“Nay. To Bartie’s wife.”

“His…wife?”

“Aye,” Eleanor said. She stuck out her lower lip and looked away. “She died in spring.”

So that was the reason for Bartholomew’s hostility. His beloved wife had died, and here Marguerite was, an interloper in what must have been Lady Norwyck’s tower room. ’Twas no wonder he was not disposed to be friendly toward her, and Marguerite did not think ’twould be prudent to wear the late Lady Norwyck’s clothes.

“Mayhap your brother would be disturbed by seeing me in his poor wife’s gown.”

“Why?”

“Well, it might remind him of her.”

Eleanor seemed to consider this for a moment, then shook her head. “Nay,” the girl said. “He never saw her in it.”

Marguerite’s expression must have been a startled one, causing Eleanor to explain. “This gown was made while Bartie was away, fighting the Scottish wars,” she said. “When he came home, Felicia was with child, so she never wore it.”

“A-and she died…in childbirth?”

“Aye,” Eleanor said. “And the bairn with her.”

“How terrible,” Marguerite said, aghast at Eleanor’s revelation. “Your brother must have been devastated.”

“Aye,” Eleanor remarked. “And he said that if he ever got his hands on the Armstrong bastard who fathered the bairn, he’d kill him.”

Marguerite and Eleanor descended the stairs and saw that the other children were already at table, breaking their fast. “My lady,” John said as he looked up. Smiling, he came to the foot of the stairs, took her hand like a true gentleman and escorted her to the table. “I’m glad you decided to join us.”

“Thank you, John,” Marguerite replied, relieved by a moment of normalcy in this strange place.

Henry was tearing into his meal, completely oblivious to her presence. Kathryn was there, too, but she stopped eating and placed her hands in her lap. Her displeasure with Marguerite’s presence could not have been made clearer. No one named Sir Walter was present.

“Good morning to you all,” Marguerite said brightly.

“Sit here, my lady,” John said. “Next to my place.”

“Thank you, John,” she said as she took a seat. From the corner of her eyes, she observed Kathryn rolling her eyes with disdain.

“I’m off to the training field,” Henry said as he wiped his mouth and stood.

“But Bartholomew forbade you to—”

“Stuff it, pest,” Henry said as he circled the table. “I do as I please.”

Kathryn bit her lip to keep from responding, but Marguerite could see that Henry’s defiance, as well as the rude name he’d called her, did not sit well with his younger sister.

“There’s bread and fish,” Eleanor said, ignoring her brother and handing Marguerite a platter laden with food.

“And cider,” John added, filling a mug for her.

“Thank you both,” Marguerite said as she applied herself to the food before her. Sitting here among the Holton children felt right. This was as it should be, she thought, with the children around her….

A clear, but fleeting memory filtered through her mind, and she saw three bright blond heads bent over their bowls, children eating hungrily, happily.

The memory disappeared before it really took hold in her mind, and Marguerite could not recapture it, though she concentrated hard enough to make herself light-headed. Frowning, she bit her lip and refrained from groaning in frustration.

“My lady?” Eleanor asked as she placed one hand on Marguerite’s arm.

“Oh, ’tis naught,” she replied, giving the child a quavering smile. “My head…’tis just a bit sore is all.”

“Mayhap you should return to your bed,” Eleanor said, her voice full of concern.

“I’ll be fine,” Marguerite said, “though a walk outside might help.” She thought the fresh air might serve to clear her head, and possibly bring back the memories that were so elusive.

“Shall we go and see Bartie?” Eleanor asked, following Marguerite’s lead in pushing away from the table.

“I think not,” she replied. She doubted that Bartholomew would appreciate her arrival upon the practice field. He barely tolerated her presence in the tower. “Mayhap to the beach? Where your brother found me?”

Kathryn slapped one hand upon the table. “Bartholomew will be angry if you go outside the walls.”

“Just to the beach?”

“You know what he said, Eleanor,” Kathryn said angrily. She addressed her sister, as if it had not been Marguerite who had spoken. “No one is to leave Norwyck’s walls. Not with the Armstrong threatening us at every—”

“Well, our men routed the Armstrongs when they last attacked, did they not?” John asked.

“Yes, but—”

“’Tis no matter, Kathryn,” Marguerite said, unwilling to ruffle anyone’s feathers. “I’ll walk in the garden if that’s permissible.”

Kathryn shrugged. “It should be all right,” she said grudgingly.

“We’ll come with you,” John said, arising from the table.

“Nay, John,” Marguerite said. She needed to be alone to try to sort out her thoughts. She touched Eleanor’s head gently, and addressed them both. “I’d like to go by myself this time.”

Both children looked disappointed, but they accepted Marguerite’s declination graciously.

“Shall I find you a shawl?” Eleanor asked, regaining her usual enthusiasm.

Marguerite smiled. “That would be lovely.”

Bartholomew handed his helm and sword to the young page, while his squire unfastened the heavy breastplate and pulled it off him. Then he bent at the waist and unbuckled his own cuisses and greaves while he gave Henry’s argument his full attention.

“But, Bartholomew, ’Tis well past time for me to begin my training,” the lad said. “I’ll never become a knight if you do not give your consent.”

Henry’s argument was a valid one, but Bart would rather keep his brothers at Norwyck, safe behind its stout walls. If he sent them out to foster, they’d be subject to all sorts of dangers. Here, at least, he could keep them protected. Safe.

Bart handed the last of his armor to his squire and turned to Henry. “I’ll give it due consideration, Hal.”

“Not good enough, Bart,” Henry said, digging in his heels. “I am ready. You know I am.”

Bart put his arm across his brother’s shoulders and started walking. “You are that anxious to leave us?”

“’Tis not that,” Henry said. “But how will I ever become a man, make something of myself as you and Will did? If you do not send me out to foster—”

“Hal, I did not deny your request,” Bart said. “I merely said—”

“That you’d consider it. Aye, I know,” Henry said. “Please, Bart. I want to become a knight, like you. Like William. I want to come back and fight the damnable Armstrongs. Mayhap one day I’ll be the one to bring Lachann Armstrong’s head to Norwyck.”

“Mayhap,” Bart said quietly. After all that had occurred, he’d hoped his younger brothers would be content to remain at Norwyck. Clearly, that was not the case. At least not with Henry. John gave no sign of wanting to leave, but ’twas possible the lad just kept his own counsel. He tended to be less outspoken than his twin.

Bart let his arm drop, and continued walking toward the hall. The chilly air cooled his overheated body, right through the light tunic and hose that he wore. He was looking forward to a bath and a shave, and did not want to think about his brothers leaving.

As they neared the keep, Bart caught sight of a woman walking toward the postern gate, a small, rusted entryway from the beach that was so rarely used, he’d forgotten it. ’Twas Marguerite.

“Go on ahead,” he said to Henry. “I’ll return later.”

Angry with his lack of a decisive answer, Henry did not protest, but stalked away as Bartholomew headed toward Marguerite.

Her skirts were green, and she was wrapped in a dark woolen shawl that concealed her form from her neck to her hips. Her head was uncovered, and her honey-brown tresses were attractively confined in soft, artful plaits that set off the delicate bones of her face.

Bart chastised himself for beginning to believe the woman’s story, only to find her attempting to slip away from Norwyck. Where was she going, and who did she plan to meet? He sped up his pace in order to catch up with her before she could pass through the gate.

“Where are you going?” he asked roughly, grabbing hold of her arm.

She winced in pain as he pulled her around to face him, but Bart refused to take note of her discomfort. Chivalry be damned. He had no intention of letting her play him for a fool.

“T-to the garden,” she replied, pulling away from him.

Her hesitation betrayed her. True enough, Norwyck’s expansive garden lay adjacent to the wall, but Bartholomew was certain she would not have stammered had she spoken the truth.

He made a rude noise. “I don’t know why I bothered to ask.”

“I—”

“Get back to the keep, madam,” he said. “And do not venture—”

“Nay!” she cried, standing firm as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I have no intention of returning to the keep until I’ve had my walk.”

“’Tis not for you to defy—”

“Nor should you try to hold me prisoner!” she said, her eyes flashing angrily. Her chin trembled and she swallowed once, drawing his eyes to the muscles working in her delicate neck. The pulse at the base of her throat throbbed rapidly. “I have done naught to you or yours, my lord, and I wish you would stop your…your vile insinuations!”

Without hesitation, she flipped the end of her shawl over her shoulder, turned and strode away.

Bart dropped his hands to his sides and stood speechless for a moment, watching as she stepped onto the garden path. Her back was straight, and she held her head high, though he could see that her poise was hard-won. She was not nearly as confident as she would have him believe, and her boldness intrigued him.

He went after her.

Quickly catching up, he took hold of her arm again and whirled her around. Her chest rose and fell with each rapid breath, and her eyes were dark with anger. Her cheeks were now flushed with color, and her mouth parted in surprise. Without thinking, Bartholomew lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.

Marguerite was shocked by the heat of his mouth and the sound of need that emerged from deep within him. She was suddenly awash with her own needs, her own cravings. She was drowning again.

The kiss was no light brushing of lips, but a meeting of flesh that quickly intensified as her body melted into his. His heat enveloped her, his scent tantalized her. His mouth was warm, but softer than she ever would have imagined, knowing how hard and unyielding he was.

An exquisite ache formed in Marguerite’s lower body, and it seemed the only way to soothe it was to press even closer to him. When she moved to do so, he suddenly broke away.

Still dazed, Marguerite did not resist when Bartholomew took hold of her hand and pulled her alongside him, farther into the garden.

’Twas late enough in the season that the trees were mostly bare of their leaves. All of the flowers had ceased to bloom, leaving withered stalks and tangled, brown underbrush along the path. The garden was colorless and bleak, but Marguerite noticed naught but the pounding of her heart and the heat of Bartholomew’s hard, callused hand around her own.

When they were deep in the garden, Bart stopped next to a massive oak tree at the edge of the path. The only color in his face was the slight flush in the hollows of his cheeks. He looked altogether too formidable, and when he let go of her hand, Marguerite took a step backward, causing a collision between her backside and the tree.

He followed.

Without speaking, he pressed his hands against the trunk on either side of Marguerite’s head. Fire was in his eyes, and determination in the set of his head. He studied her face, gazing at her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, and then at her mouth.

Marguerite trembled under his scrutiny, unafraid of him, but distinctly alarmed by her own attraction to him.

Without warning, he took her mouth again.

With both fists, she grabbed the damp linen at his chest and pulled him to her, taking possession of his lips, his teeth, his tongue. Shivering, she felt his hands drop to her shoulders, then down her back and lower, dragging her body into closer contact with his.

Marguerite let go of his tunic and slid her hands up the hard muscles of his chest, even as he overwhelmed her senses with his mouth, his touch, his very size. He tasted male, if that was possible, and so very potent he made her dizzy.

Every nerve in her body hummed. Her blood boiled and her bones seemed to melt under his sensual onslaught. Her lack of memory made no difference now, when the present was all that mattered.

He jerked abruptly away from her. “I must be mad,” he said. He encircled her wrists with his hands, imprisoning them against his chest even as he stepped back.

Marguerite swallowed and gazed blankly at his chest as she worked to compose herself. He was not the only one suffering a kind of madness. She had allowed herself to succumb to her attraction for Bartholomew, in spite of her anger, in spite of her uncertainty of who and what she was.

She let out a shuddering breath and looked up.

His dark eyes still smoldered with heat, and his jaw was clenched tight. His breathing was not as steady as usual.

Her own certainly was not. Nor did her heart maintain its normal rhythm. Every inch of her skin felt as if it were on fire, and the tips of her breasts tingled uncomfortably. She swayed toward him, unwilling to end their ardent encounter.

After but a moment’s hesitation, Bartholomew swept her up in his arms and carried her farther into the garden. He did not stop until they’d reached a small, wooden hut, hidden behind a thick row of evergreens. He shoved the door open with one foot and carried her inside.

There were no windows, so the only light inside emanated from the open door. Marguerite eased her arms from around Bartholomew’s neck and slid down the length of his body to the floor. He cupped her face and kissed her once, quickly but deeply, then turned away, leaving her shaken and with a growing sense of uncertainty.

Marguerite was hardly aware of his actions as he lit a lamp and closed the door. Being alone with Bartholomew in this isolated shed at the far end of the garden was as daunting as it was exciting. And Marguerite knew she could not stay.

Bartholomew did not trust her, nor did he believe her claim of memory loss. She would never allow such intimacy while he held such a low opinion of her.

She clasped her hands before her and cleared her throat. “M-my lord,” she began. “I…” She bit her lip and watched him as he came back to her.

“Do not think, Marguerite,” he said, nuzzling her ear. He moved his lips to her throat. “Just feel….”

She swallowed, and felt all too much. Her body was overcome with the sensations he was able to elicit with barely a touch, and she felt herself falling all over again.

“My lord,” she breathed. “I cannot…This is unseemly….”

“I want you.” He pulled the shawl away from her shoulders and let it drop.

“I…I—”

His hands slipped down to cup her breasts, and Marguerite felt the tips hardening in response. The only thing that could possibly feel more glorious would be his hands on her naked flesh.

“You want me, too.”

She swallowed hard. “Wh-what if I have a husband, my lord?” she asked tremulously. “Or a betrothed?”

The seductive touches at her throat and breasts stopped abruptly, and Bartholomew drew himself up to his full height, sliding his hands up to her shoulders. “Have you?”

Marguerite blushed. She shook her head. “I do not know,” she whispered. “I don’t believe anyone has ever t-touched me this way, but I cannot be sure.”

“It changes naught,” he said roughly. “How can you cuckold a husband or lover if you cannot remember him?”

“I do not know, my lord,” Marguerite retorted as she worked to compose herself, “b-but I would not betray a husband if indeed he exists.”

“But you…” Bartholomew turned away, dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration. She heard him mutter something under his breath, but could not make out the words. He walked toward the door, then stood facing it as he plowed his fingers through his hair.

“I am sorry, my lord, if—”

“I want you in my bed,” he said, turning to her again. His hair was more disheveled now, and his eyes were dark, dangerous to her peace of mind. “I want you naked, willing. Come to me when you’ve decided what you want.”