Читать книгу Knights Divided - Suzanne Barclay - Страница 8

Harte Court September 18, 1386

It was dark by the. time Jamie Harcourt drew rein at the crest of the knoll. Not that he needed the light to guide him, for this was the land of his birth. He’d explored these fields and forests from the time he could walk, and every square inch was indelibly engraved on his mind.

Yet a thrill went through him as he looked across to the keep built high on the opposing bluff. Harte Court was as vast as a small city, its four sturdy towers and countless dependencies tucked safely behind twelve-foot-thick walls. Fierce and intimidating, some called it the impregnable fortress, but to him it was home. Or had been once.

Home. A pang of longing struck him, swift, sharp and totally unexpected. After seven years in exile, he’d hoped he’d gotten over his attachment to this place. Now he knew he never would. As the eldest son, Harte Court was his birthright, yet he could never claim it. The familiar bitterness rose up inside him. Impatiently he shoved it away. His time here was short, too short for useless regrets.

“No sense borrowing trouble when we’ve plenty enough, eh lad?” He patted Neptune’s glossy black neck and kneed the stallion back onto the road. The air smelled sweet indeed to a nose more used to the tang of the sea. ’Twas fragrant with the mingled scent of ripe wheat and the wildflowers nodding in the hedgerows separating the fields into neat squares. Prosperous and well tended, he mused. There seemed to be more cultivated land than he recalled from his youth, but then, he’d been more interested in chasing the maids and learning to wield a sword than overseeing the estate that would one day be his.

Now he could not afford to care.

Resolutely pinning his gaze to the ribbon of dusty road, he thought instead of the things he must do after he’d paid his duty call. Return to London. Meet with Harry. Sail quickly back to Cornwall. Tight schedule. No time for lagging or sentimentality.

“Who goes there?” demanded a gruff voice.

Jamie looked up, startled to find the moment he’d been anticipating and dreading was nearly at hand. The drawbridge had been lowered over the moat, but was manned by a guard of twenty. Not surprising in these troubled times. “Jamie Harcourt, come to bid my mother well on her name day.”

“The hell ye say.” A stout soldier in Harcourt green and gold strode forward and held a torch aloft. “Jesu, it is ye.”

Jamie laughed. “I know. George of Walken, is it not?”

“Ye’ve a good memory, milord.” The old warrior grinned. “Yer sire said ye’d come to honor yer lady mother, but—”

“No one thought I’d dare show my scarred face.”

George looked at the patch covering the ruins of Jamie’s left eye, then away. “There was some who thought ye’d not come…considering that murder business, but I wagered on ye.”

The reference to Celia made his stomach lurch. Would that mistake haunt him, as well? “How much did you win?”

“A pound, all told.” George chuckled. “New men. They don’t know ye as well as I do.” His smile dimmed. “I was always sure ye’d be back. I just didn’t know ’twould be so long.”

“Ah, well, black sheep are never certain whether they’re welcome or not,” Jamie replied with a cheeky grin.

“Ye were never that,” George said stoutly. “Just a high-spirited lad who pulled his share of pranks, ran off to sea and found he liked the adventuring life better than all this.”

A few pranks…like getting himself maimed, his brother crippled and breaking his parents’ hearts. How he wished he could go back and live his life over, but that was impossible. “Fortunately my brother isn’t cursed with my wild nature.”

“Sir Hugh’s been a fine lord in yer stead. Fair and honest and as hard a worker as any under him. But…but he can never be the warrior ye are. What if we are invaded by the French?”

“I doubt the French will come, but if they do, good old Hugh will do what’s needful. He always rises to the occasion.”

“Aye, that he does.” George glanced at the patch again, no doubt recalling the day that had changed Hugh’s and Jamie’s lives forever. “Ye just missed him, rode down to settle some trouble in the village not half an hour past. I could send someone to—”

Jamie shook his head. “Unless Hugh has changed greatly, he’d not thank either of us for dragging him from his duty for so frivolous a thing as greeting his errant twin. I’m certain he’ll return before I leave. Thanks for wagering on me, George.” For believing in me where others have not, Jamie thought to himself.

Kneeing Neptune into a trot, Jamie passed under the teeth of the portcullis and up the road that cut through the outer bailey. Here were the barracks for the soldiers, the stables and the training field. A wave of nostalgia assailed him as he recalled the many hours spent in the tiltyard learning to wield a sword under his father’s exacting eye. The memory was tainted by the fierce competitiveness between himself and Hugh, the strife that had ended in a blood-spattered glade seven years ago.

Look ahead…never back, he warned himself.

All hope of slipping within, seeing his mother and leaving without causing a stir vanished when he rode through the gatehouse and into the inner ward. The courtyard was washed bright as day by the hundred torches fixed to the massive stone towers and packed with those who’d come to celebrate the forty-third anniversary of Lady Jesselynn’s birth. From inside drifted the sounds of music, laughter and general merrymaking.

The ringing of Neptune’s shod hooves on the cobblestones brought several heads around. The crowd in the courtyard fell silent quickly, as though they’d all been struck mute at once.

“Pon my word. ’Tis young Jamie,” a man exclaimed.

His name riffled through the crowd like an ill wind. Men’s eyes widened, their mouths twisted over words he’d heard before: Ingrate. Brigand. Wastrel. Murderer. The older women flinched and crossed themselves; the younger ones giggled and stared.

“Dieu, he’s a handsome one,” said a blonde upholstered in red silk. She appraised him as greedily as she might a slice of beef.

“Too rough. Too dangerous ”hissed her companion.

Beneath her elaborate headdress, the blonde’s eyes sparkled with a lustfulness he’d had directed at him by women from the time he sprouted a beard. “I certainly hope so.” She sauntered over, laid a hand on his hose-clad knee and gazed up at him through kohl-darkened lashes. “Did you really lose your eye battling the pirates?” she purred.

Jamie grinned, tempted to oblige her by lifting the black leather triangle. That’s what they wanted…men and women alike…a peek under his patch. Well, jaded ladies like this one wanted a bit more, a quick tumble to judge for themselves if he was as dangerous as he looked, as hedonistic as his reputation. Many’s the time he’d been only too happy to oblige. But not tonight. “Not pirates, milady,” he replied, cool but courteous. “I fear the story is far less colorful.” Far more tragic.

“A jealous woman, then?” she asked archly, wetting her lips, clearly not discouraged by his lack of warmth. “I know I’d not take kindly to sharing you.” Leaning forward, she pressed her ample bosom against his leg, giving him an unimpeded view of the charms spilling over the bodice of her low-cut cotehardie.

Jamie groaned inwardly and struggled against the nature with which he’d been blessed—or cursed, depending on your view. Women fascinated him. They were soft, fragile and endlessly pleasurable creatures. Coy, seductive packages whose silken wrappings he could no more resist exploring than he could stop breathing. Since that near disaster with Celia, he had been celibate as a monk. His life was currently dangerous enough without added complications. “Another time,” he said gallantly. “I must first seek out my lady mother.”

“Have you come back to stay?” asked a tall man. Though older and grayer, Jamie recognized Gilbert Thurlow, chief of his father’s vassals. Gilbert had often criticized Jamie’s wild ways and doubtless preferred Hugh’s stable hands at the helm. With Gilbert stood several other Harcourt retainers, faces equally concerned as they waited for his response.

“I fear I cannot stay,” Jamie said. The sigh of relief that went through the group confirmed the difficult decision he’d made seven years ago. They were better off without him. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t linger, but I am anxious to see my parents.” He inclined his head cordially, winked at the blonde, because old habits die hard, and wheeled Neptune toward the stables.

Grinning over the whispers he’d left in his wake, as usual, he dismounted and tossed his horse’s reins to the stable boy along with a penny. “We’ve had a long ride. See he gets a rundown and an extra measure of oats, lad.”

The boy stared at Jamie. “Ye are Lord Jamie. I’ve heard tell of ye. Are ye truly a pirate, milord?” he whispered.

Jamie grinned. “Aye, that and more. What’s your name, lad?”

“Rob. I’m George of Walken’s son. Please, milord, take me with ye when ye leave.”

“Pirating’s a hard life, Rob.”

“I don’t care,” the boy said passionately. “Tis deadly boring duty here, and I’ve wanted to go to sea ever since I went with yer sire to London harbor and stepped aboard his ship.”

Jamie knew the feeling well. He’d been smitten when he was five and his father had taken him on a short voyage aboard The Sommerville Star. Later, when he’d run off to sea, his father had understood…up to a point. “You need to grow some before you’re big enough and strong enough to manage the sails,” Jamie said gently. He didn’t want to pinch Rob’s pride, but he was not taking him into harm’s way. And that’s exactly where his own ship, Harcourt’s Lady, was sailing.

“I could be yer cabin boy till I’m grown.”

“I already have a lad to serve me, but we’ll talk of this again next time I come home.”

“Promise?”

Jamie nodded. Another lie. When he returned, ‘twould be for burial in the family plot. Presuming traitors were allowed such privileges. “Saddle my horse after you’ve rubbed him down and leave him just inside the stable in case I must leave quickly.”

The last was no whim. It was as deeply ingrained a habit as sitting with his face to the door and back to the wall, or sleeping in his clothes with his sword to hand. A sad commentary on what his life had become. But more often than not a man did not choose the path he trod; it chose him. Just a little longer, he told himself. A month or so and he’d be free of this terrible responsibility. Free to get on with his own life.

And then what? mocked a harsh voice.

He knew nothing else but death and deception. Where did spies and murderers go when they gave up the craft? To hell. The now-familiar weariness crept in to weigh on his spirit and conscience. He pushed it away, having neither time nor patience for selfpity. He’d wallowed in both the year he’d lost his eye, and nearly himself. Never again, he’d vowed when his father had succeeded in hauling him back from the brink of self-destruction. Squaring his shoulders, he started for the house.

“Lady Jesselynn’s greetin’ her guests in the gardens, sir,” Rob said. “Just follow that path ’round the back.”

“I remember.” Only too well. Jamie strode down the walk that ran alongside the manor. On one side it was bordered by the stone keep, on the other by the gardens put in by his Aunt Gaby, because his mother preferred managing the estate to domestic tasks. So why couldn’t she understand why he preferred the sea to land? Because she knew it for a lie. Much as he loved sailing, he’d have stayed here if he could. But that was impossible.

Jamie rounded the corner of the castle and stopped, every muscle in his body tensing. Damn, half of London was here. The crush was too much even for the vast hall, and tables had been set about in the grassy verge between the blocks of flowers and trees. Laughing and drinking, the noble lords and ladies milled about before the stately old manor. Torches stuck in rings in the old stone walls shimmered on costly silken gowns and the precious gems banding them at throat and hip.

No expense had been spared, it seemed. To one side, a pair of sweaty-faced boys turned an oxen over a blazing fire. Platters of roasted game, pink salmon and a dozen accompaniments he recognized as his mother’s favorites crowded the long tables. Musicians played in the shadow of a pin oak tree for a line of merry dancers. Maids bearing heavy trays worked the crowd, making certain no ale cup or wine goblet went empty.

Footsteps behind him brought Jamie around. In one swift move he drew the knife from his belt and crouched to repel an attack.

“We’ve had our differences, but I hoped it hadn’t come to this,” drawled the voice that had dispelled his childhood fears.

“Papa.” Jamie sheathed his blade and straightened. Uncertain what to do, he stood still, struggling not to squirm beneath the piercing scrutiny of midnight eyes so like his own.

Time had laced silver hair at his father’s temples and etched deep lines around his mouth. Or was his own behavior responsible for his father’s air of weary resignation, Jamie wondered. An apology bumped against the lump in his throat. But what could he say that would make up for all he’d done.

“I prayed you’d come,” his father said.

“I…I shouldn’t have, I suppose,” Jamie murmured. “I’d hate to taint you with my trouble.”

“Nonsense.” The fire that never quite left Alex’s eyes flared. “You were acquitted of that girl’s murder.”

That wasn’t the trouble he’d meant. Strong was the urge to unburden himself to the one person who might understand what he was doing and why. The need for caution kept him silent.

‘Is it my imagination, or does this gaiety seem a bit frantic?” Jamie asked, smoothly changing the subject. He was good at that, so good at lies and evasion it was sometimes hard to separate them from the truth.

His father glared at the nobles, most of whom were friends and acquaintances of long standing. “They’ve gone mad. The whole damned country’s hysterical with fear of this rumored French invasion. They say Charles has mustered thirty thousand men.”

“And is reportedly readying a transport of near twelve hundred ships to bring them here.” Jamie had seen both the soldiers and ships for himself. But of course, ’twould be treason to admit as much.

“Two days ago the king ordered London’s suburbs demolished.”

Jamie gasped. “Why? Has he gone truly mad?”

“Oxford thought ’twould make the city easier to defend.” Alex shook his head. “I do not agree, but ’tis fruitless to oppose the king or his ministers. They are so anxious to find someone on whom to blame the excesses and stupidity which has landed us in these dire straits that they lash out at any who disagree with them. Walter Dunwell is a case in point. He converted his coin to jewels and tried to flee to the safety of Italy with them sewed into his tunic. He was arrested in Dover, charged with treason, and hanged before his family’s eyes.”

Jamie felt the noose tightening around his own neck. “London buzzed with talk of it when I landed a few weeks ago.” He’d barely paid them any mind, for he’d had troubles of his own. Sir Thomas Burton had met him on the docks with the news of Celia’s death and a lot of tricky questions. Damn but that had been a close brush with disaster. If not for his loyal crew—

“Nor is Walter the only one who has panicked. Those who have not succeeded in leaving are spending their money like…like sailors come ashore on their first liberty.”

“In case there is no tomorrow.”

“Aye. Fools. They’d do better to fortify their castles and hold up in them to resist the invaders.”

Jamie winced, imagining hordes of blood-crazed French troops battering down the gates of Harte Court and slaying those dearer to him than his own life. “Richard and his advisors are not fit to rule,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“I agree they’ve brought much of this trouble upon us, but the French have taken advantage of Richard’s weaknesses and now have us in a stranglehold.” Which was true enough. Last year King Charles had captured Bruges and confiscated the goods of English merchants there, effectively cutting off the wool trade that was a main source of royal revenue. A new wool staple had been established at Middleburg, but profits were slim because the ships had to sail in armed convoys to protect them from French privateers. “The royal treasury is so depleted it cannot fund foreign mercenaries to protect us, and we nobles have been taxed to the limit.” Alex sighed. “No one disputes the fact Richard has been a disappointment. He’s headstrong, capricious and—”

“Irresponsible. Oxford and the other greedy fops he’s surrounded himself with since he cast off his uncle’s good counsel will be the ruin of us all. They are the true traitors.”

“None would dare say so. Oxford stands so high in Richard’s favor he has only to whisper a thing in the royal ear and it is done. John of Gaunt alone had the power and courage to speak out against them. Tis a pity he picked these perilous times to go to Spain and press his claim to his father-in-law’s throne.”

“Lancaster chose it apurpose,” Jamie said. “He has been so vocal in his censure of his Richard’s actions he feared the king would give in to Oxford’s urgings and put him in the Tower.”

“Are you still close with Lancaster and his brood?”

Closer than ever, but that would only hurt the father from whom he’d become estranged. Jamie had been fostered into the royal duke’s household at age nine, and a valuable, if sometimes dangerous, association it had turned out to be. “His Grace asked me to provision his ships for the voyage to Castile, and Harry and I hunted together a few months ago.”

“You’d best be careful how you go. There are some who’d like to see Lancaster or young Henry of Bolingbroke on the throne in place of Richard.”

And Jamie was one of them. “Enough of this war talk.”

The militant light faded from Alex’s eyes, replaced by quiet joy. “Aye, I’m glad you’ve come home, Jamie. Your mother has been worried about you.” He grinned ruefully. “As have I.”

“I can only stay a short time,” Jamie murmured, not wanting to raise any false expectations.

“But if there is trouble, we’ll need every fighting man.”

“I’ve never stayed away from a battle in my life,” Jamie exclaimed. “But the attack will come from the sea, and I can best serve England from aboard the Lady.” If it came to that.

His father nodded. “I suppose there is truth in that, still…” He sighed. “Though you’re a grown man, I hate having you off fighting where I cannot defend you if need be.”

Jamie longed for the days when his problems were simple enough to be solved by his father’s strong arm and sage advice. He was on his own in this, vulnerable as a fly on a whitewashed wall. If he was caught, he’d die a traitor’s death, and no one, not even his powerful foster father, would step in to save him.

So he must not fail.

“I may not have you standing behind me, Papa, but I have the skills and training you drubbed into my thick skull.”

Alex laughed. “’Twas not easy to teach a lad who thought he already knew it all.”

“Shall we see if we can find Mama. I’ve a gift for her…a dagger from the East that I think will take her fancy.” He was adept at knowing what women liked, especially his mother, whose tastes ran to practical things, not pretty baubles.

“Your presence is the best gift she could have.” He draped an arm over Jamie’s shoulder and together they worked their way around the fringes of the crowd. “Hugh should be back soon.”

Jamie stiffened instinctively, but his father only held tighter to him.

“You are both grown, now. Let there be peace between you.”

“Of course,” Jamie said, but he knew he and his twin could never live in harmony. There was too much between them. Blood and betrayal. Guilt and remorse. “I know it hurts you that we always fought when you and your brothers were so close, but Hugh and I are so different.” Hugh, the stuffy prig, Jamie the hellion.

“Aye, Hugh was ever quiet and serious—”

Cold, remote and sanctimonious.

“And you a hellion bent on mischief,” Alex added. “’Twas evident from the first night. We’d put you together in the one cradle because we hadn’t known we’d be needing two. When you awoke, you howled for attention. Hugh just lay there, quietly waiting his turn.”

Jamie laughed. “Mama said I’d inherited your temper, curiosity and thirst for adventure.”

“Ha! Speaks the woman who pitched a kettle at me when she saw me talking…only talking, mind you…with another woman. At least I learned to control my temper. And taught you the same.”

“Lessons that stand me in good stead, else I’d have shoved Hugh’s teeth down his throat every time he tattled on me.”

“Which was often and with good cause, you rascal. Ah, there are your mother, uncles and aunts.” Alex veered toward a fivesome standing beneath the spreading branches of an old oak.

How handsome they are, Jamie thought with a spurt of pride. Light from a nearby torch played softly on the fair hair of the two tall men, Ruarke, youngest but bigger and more thickly muscled. Gareth, the eldest Sommerville and now earl, and the smiling faces of the three petite women, his mother and aunts, Gabrielle and Arianna. Though Alex had also been born a Sommerville, he’d changed his name to Harcourt when he’d wed Jesselynn, last of that line, so her name wouldn’t die out. The minstrels had devoted many a verse to that romantic gesture.

“Let the French come!” Uncle Ruarke roared in a voice that in his day had urged men to victory against the French, making him the hero of Poitiers and the scourge of the Continent. “My men are well trained. They’ll not take Wilton whilst I live.”

Aunt Gaby clutched at his sleeve. “Oh, Ruarke. ‘Tis been years since you’ve fought Is there no other way?”

“Nay!” her husband shouted. “Do you impinge my skills?”

“No one doubts your strength,” soothed Gareth. “But the French number thirty thousand. How many can you field?”

“Two thousand, twice that with your men and Alex’s. And there are at least ten other nobles who can muster a like force.”

“Too little. Too late.” Gareth shook his head. “Mayhap the king is right to try and solve this by treaty.”

“Treaty!” Ruarke’s roar shook the branches overhead and caused heads to turn the length of the garden. “That effeminate little brat will lose his crown and his head if he trusts Charles. Curse the Earl of Oxford and the other greedy—”

“Hush,” Gareth interjected. “Do you want to be arrested?”

“’Tis good to see you’ve not grown soft with age, Uncle,” Jamie called before the man dug himself in any deeper.

All five whipped around. Their mouths fell open, then lifted into smiles of welcome as they rushed to him with glad cries.

“You are well come, lad.” Uncle Ruarke lifted him off the ground in a rib-cracking hug, then passed him down the line of grinning Sommervilles, their cheeks wet with happy tears.

Lastly he came to his mother. “Happy Birthday, Mama.”

Jesselynn Harcourt’s green eyes filled with the ghosts he knew he’d put there. But they were chased away by delight. “Oh, Jamie…I thought…I feared…” She opened her arms.

“I’m fine, Mama. He bent to bury his nose in the veil that hid her wild red hair. She still smelled the same, like lavender, like home, but the fragility of her body startled him. Either he had grown or she had shrunk. Before he could voice his fears, his father’s muscular arms enveloped them. For several moments Jamie stood there, soaking up the balm of their unspoken love, then a shriek rent the air and a solid body collided with his back.

“Jamie! You wretch.” Despite the harsh words, slender arms encircled his waist and clung. “Why did you not write you were coming?” wailed a muffled voice. A fist slammed into his ribs.

Grunting, Jamie released his mother and twisted about to plant a kiss on the red curls that barely reached his breastbone. “You’ve grown, bratling, but you’re still a heathen.”

“I was ten and five last birthday and know how to act the lady when I choose.” Johanna was a miniature of their mother, with flaming hair, brilliant green eyes and a wayward nature that made Jamie seem tame by comparison. Their mother had lost two other children before delivering Johanna, so she was doubly precious to them all. And spoiled. “I’m old enough to be betrothed,” she added loftily.

“Perish the thought,” Jamie teased, though the idea of his darling Jo wed to some man was intolerable. “Who’d have you?”

“Lots of people. I’m an heiress, you know.”

Jamie glanced at his father. “You haven’t—”

“Nay, I haven’t.” Alex exclaimed. “I’m never going to part with her.” He ruffled her curls. “No man is good enough for my little princess.”

Agreed, Jamie thought. Despite the differences in the sexes and ages, he and Jo were as close as he and Hugh should have been. There was always a letter from Jo waiting when he put into port, and she’d come to London a few times with their parents to see him. Hugh had never come, of course, claiming pressing work on the estate as an excuse, whilst Jamie pleaded a busy schedule as the reason he didn’t travel to Harte Court. “More like, no man is fool enough to undertake to discipline her as we never could.”

Jo snorted. “If I have to become a prissy mouse like Willa in order to catch a husband, I’ll never wed.”

“Who is Willa?”

“Willa Neville. Hugh’s betrothed.”

“This is news.”

“The contracts were signed only last week,” Alex explained. “Though they won’t be wed till she is sixteen.”

Jamie smiled. “Is she beautiful and well dowered?”

“She has her father’s hawk beak and is so homely she’d not get a husband if she weren’t a great heiress,” Jo muttered.

“That is no way to speak about your new sister,” her mother chided. “Willa is only eleven. She may…grow into her features.”

“She is Lord Matthew Neville’s only child,” Alex hastened to add. “His lands border Harte Court on the north and on the east, those of Austen Heath, the keep we gave to Hugh.”

“Trust Hugh to take a wife who will increase the family fortunes,” Jamie said more sharply than he’d intended.

“At least he is marrying,” Aunt Gaby said pointedly.

“I am certain my parents are glad Hugh thinks with his mind and not his—”

“James Harcourt!” Jesselynn exclaimed.

“I beg pardon, Aunt Gaby.” Jamie bowed stiffly. Jesu, even when Hugh wasn’t present there was trouble between them.

“I think they deserve each other.” Jo wrinkled her nose. “Willa is as dull and serious as Hugh.”

“Your brother carries a heavy load of responsibilities,” Jesselynn said, but she looked at Jamie, silently reminding him the burdens Hugh shouldered should have been Jamie’s.

I cannot, Jamie cried, staring into his mother’s hurtfilled eyes and wishing things didn’t have to be this way.

Johanna broke the tension by plucking on his sleeve. “How long can you stay?” she demanded.

Another unwelcome question. Over the guests’ laughter and jesting, he heard the minstrels strike up.a sprightly tune. “Long enough to dance with you, brat.”

Catching hold of her hands, Jamie tugged his sister toward the couples forming up for the next set. As they passed by the minstrels in their red and gold tunics, he realized one of them, the one glancing over her shoulder to speak with the leader, was a woman. ‘Twas not unheard of, merely unusual, especially since their badges identified them as members of the Golden Wait of Harrowgate, the professional troupe employed by the city of London. ‘Twas a source of great pride and prestige to be a member of the group founded by the legendary Alford le Trompour.

Out of long-standing habit, Jamie looked the woman over a second time. She was tall, her figure unfortunately obscured by the concealing folds of the simple woolen gown that fell from shoulders to hem without a belt to cinch it in. He noted she was not wearing the badge. A substitute called to fill in for an ailing player? If so, she was not much skilled, for the instrument she held was the bells.

“Jamie?” Jo asked, plucking at his sleeve.

“Hmm. I am waiting for the music to begin,” he said without looking away from the girl. Not beautiful, he mused, studying her profile. But pretty. Her dark hair had been skinned back into a single braid, exposing her high forehead, slim nose and determined chin. At the moment, said chin was thrust out in a manner reminiscent of Jo in a fury, and her cheeks were flushed. Ah, a lass with fire. He liked that.

Jamie redirected his gaze to the source of her anger, a bull of a man with black hair and coarse, florid features. He mistrusted the man on sight. The bastard’s lips moved as he took the girl to task for something. In one hand, he held a trumpet, the other beat the air as he made his point.

The girl lifted her chin further and countered with a remark that turned her opponent’s face purple.

He is going to hit her.

Without waiting to confirm the hunch, Jamie dashed across the intervening space, shoving people from his path. But he was too late. Just as he leapt over the wooden rail separating the minstrels from the dancers, the brute lashed out with one massive paw, and the girl went down in a heap.

“Bastard!” Jamie launched himself at the man. The impact of flesh hitting flesh drove the air from his lungs and toppled them both to the ground. Jamie came out on top. Conscious that the man outweighed him by several stone, he got his hands around his opponent’s fleshy throat and braced for a fight. But the man lay beneath him like a dead fish, gasping for breath and moaning piteously. “Do you yield,” Jamie rasped.

“Aye…” the man said, choking. “P-please do not strike my mouth. I…the horn.”

Thoroughly disgusted by this craven display, Jamie lifted himself off the man and sat back on his haunches. “See you never strike her again.” Speaking of which, he turned his head and found the girl sitting on the ground a foot away, her eyes round as serving platters, one hand on her cheek. He crawled over to her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded mutely.

“Let me see.” He took her hand to move it aside, and something ruffled through him. A shock of awareness, a feeling of being connected. His gaze locked on hers, and for an instant the noise and lights faded away. “Wh-who are you?” he whispered, because the air had been punched from his body by whatever was happening to him…to them.

“Em…Emmeline.” She sounded as dazed as he.

“Emmeline.” He savored the taste of it on his tongue.

“Jamie!” His father grabbed hold of his shoulder, breaking the spell. “What happened?”

“I was rescuing the fair Emmeline from yon brute.” Jamie gave her his most dazzling smile. The one that caused ladies to melt at his feet. This lady looked cold as the North Sea in December. “You’ve not asked, but I will tell you ‘tis Jamie Harcourt you have to thank for saving you.”

Emmeline pulled free of his grasp. “I know who you are.” She glared at him with such hatred she stole his breath for the second time that night. Scrambling to her feet, she speared him with one last, damning glance and dashed off into the crowd that had assembled around the musicians.

“What is going on?” his father demanded.

Damned if I know, Jamie thought, staring at the place where the mysterious Emmeline had disappeared. But he meant to find out. No woman ran away from him.