A dull ache roused within her. She had been treated kindly. Most surprising, considering what she knew of the Seabrooks, but she was grateful.
When he continued to work on her hand, she said quietly, “If you must know the reason I was in your field….”
“Mmm?”
“I wanted a few moments of freedom.”
“Freedom from?”
“My family. My parents, I mean. ’Tis challenging sometimes, being their only child now.”
“Now? ’Twas not always so?”
“I had an older sister. She married a couple of years ago, but died…birthing a stillborn son.”
“I am sorry,” Osric murmured.
“Since her passing, my parents have grown even more protective. I love them dearly, but there are times when I feel stifled.”
Osric cradled her hand in both of his. Using his thumbs, he rubbed the back of her hand, around the knuckles, and down her fingers in lazy circles. She longed to sigh deeply and savor the pleasure, but resisted.
“Where did you learn to be so good with your hands?” she asked.
“On Crusade.” Pressing a little deeper, his thumbs glided up over the back of her hand again. “One of my friends, an excellent swordsman, suffered pains in his right hand and arm after long battles. He could not sleep because of the discomfort, so I would do my best to work out some of the tension.”
“’Twas kind of you.”
Osric shrugged. “I asked a healer to teach me what to do. There really was no other choice for my friend. The healers and surgeons were too busy caring for others who were wounded—the sons of rich families with close ties to King Richard, above all—to tend those with lesser ailments.”
“That reminds me, milord. My family will be worried about me.” Her voice hitched on the last word.
“I expect so,” Osric agreed. “As I mentioned before, I will help you get messages to your loved ones.” He set her hand, shiny with its coat of ointment, down on the coverlet. “I am glad, though, that you did not end up like the unfortunate lady last night.”
Misgiving gnawed. “What lady?”
“The daughter of my neighbor, Lord Molineaux.” Osric picked up her right hand and, after taking more ointment from the pot, started on a scrape. “Since you live close by, you must know of her.”
“I do.” Dreading he might ask her to divulge what she knew, Violetta added, “She has never visited where I work, but I have heard she shops in the town now and again.”
Osric nodded, but didn’t glance up from her hand. “Lady Molineaux left her home last evening and never returned.”
“W-why not?”
“I do not know, but she is the reason I was not here when you woke. My steward and captain-of-the-guard were updating me on the extensive search for her.”
Extensive search? A silent cry of dismay welled within Violetta. Her parents must be frantic to find her, and ’twas all her fault.
Osric’s steady, piercing gaze met hers. “I am told Lord Molineaux will not rest until his daughter is safely home.”
~ * ~
Violetta’s—Lettie’s—hand trembled, and Osric returned his attention to her cuts and scrapes. He hoped he hadn’t given himself away. He was enjoying the deception between them. It provided a lively distraction from all of the other matters he had to manage being lord.
She remained still and silent as he worked, no doubt pondering what he’d told her, or mayhap debating whether to admit who she really was. He’d rather not have that conversation yet; not until he’d learned more about why she’d ventured onto his estate.
And not until he’d learned more about her. No woman had ever captured his interest the way she did.
He continued to massage her hand, not because he needed to do so—there was quite enough ointment on her wounds now—but because he enjoyed the softness of her skin. Her fingers were slender and elegant, of a refinement that came with noble breeding.
“If I may, milord?”
“You may.”
“Your words implied concern for Lady Molineaux’s wellbeing.”
A startled laugh burgeoned within him, but he forced it down. “Some concern, I suppose. Our families are enemies, but like all knights, I hate to think of a maiden in danger.”
He stole a glance at her and realized, suddenly, how little effort ’twould take on his part to kiss her.
Desire whipped through him, fueled by the hunger that had kindled when he’d started tending her hands. How he wanted to lean forward and press his mouth to the rosy plumpness of hers.
How would she taste? Would her lips be anywhere near as soft and warm as her hands?
Bloody hell.
He released her and put the lid back on the pot.
“You said her ladyship’s father would not rest until his daughter was home,” Lettie continued. “Milord, as soon as possible, I must ease the concerns of my own family.”
Osric rose and went to the oak trestle table near the door. Servants earlier had left soap and a bowl of water to wash, as well as wine. “All right.”
“’Twould please my parents if I arrived home this day.”
‘Twould not please me, love, to let you go so soon. Drying his hands on a linen towel, he said, “A letter will be enough for now.”
Frustration etched her features.
“Your parents would not expect you to travel with a hurt ankle.”
“If you loaned me a horse, I could ride—”
“You shall rest, Lettie. For a few days yet.”
Her throat moved with a swallow. “What if my father sent a wagon to collect me?”
Osric shook his head. “You will remain here, at least until your condition has improved.”
Lettie sighed. “Very well. A letter, then.”
He set down the towel. “You can tell me what to write on your behalf and where the letter is to be delivered.”
A strangled sound broke from her.
He feigned puzzlement. “You do not like that arrangement?”
“I do, milord.” Her fingers nervously plucked at the coverlet. “’Tis just that…well….”
“No need to be ashamed. I am well aware that you, like most women, cannot read or write.”
Her lips parted on a sharp indrawn breath, as though she intended to correct him. Then her mouth closed, and she glanced over at the fire.
Osric fought not to chuckle. Her reaction proved she could read and write—although to maintain her ruse, she had to pretend she couldn’t. “I will order a quill, ink, and parchment,” he said, crossing to the door. “As soon as they arrive, we will start your letter.”
Chapter 4
Osric opened the chamber door and spoke with someone outside, and Violetta exhaled a shaky breath. His comment about her being illiterate had pricked her temper, but she had only herself to blame for the predicament in which she found herself.
While not all noblewomen were taught reading and writing, her parents had believed both were important skills, especially for a lady who would one day manage her lord husband’s household and mayhap even his accounts. When Violetta was but six years old, her father had hired a tutor from London to teach her and her sister to read and write, as well as do mathematics. A quick learner, Violetta had read her way through all of the tomes her tutor had provided, as well as the few leather-bound books in her father’s solar. She didn’t dare reveal her skills or her love of reading, though, to Osric.
A ghastly feeling of entrapment had taunted her during their conversation, for how could she get a letter to her parents without Osric discovering who she was? Then she’d remembered her sire’s arrangement with the town baker. Months ago, she’d overheard her father tell visiting knights that messages could always be left for him at the baker’s shop; the missives need not be addressed to him for them to be sent on to Darringsleigh Keep.
She could ask Osric to deliver the letter to the shop. Her identity would remain a secret—unless she chose to reveal the truth. ’Twa
s a tremendous relief, to know she governed whether or not he learned who she was.
Shutting the door, Osric faced her. “You suddenly look much happier.”
“I am grateful to be sending a letter.”
“Ah.” He returned to the trestle table and poured red wine into two goblets. “While we wait, tell me more about this family of yours.”
She’d rather not; she might inadvertently betray herself. But, if she showed reluctance, he’d suspect she was keeping secrets from him—and she needed to get that letter written and sent. “What do you wish to know?”
He strode to the bedside and handed her a goblet before sitting in the chair again. “Well, for a start, do your ancestors hail from these lands or from the continent?”
“Normandy.” No harm in revealing that to him. While many titled families could trace their ancestry to the nobles who had fought in William the Conqueror’s armies, people of humble birth had Norman ties too. Entire families had fled France because of the bloodshed and devastation caused by ongoing wars between the French and English sovereigns over lands. “And you?” she asked.
He sipped his wine then smiled. “My ancestors were Saxon.”
“Does that make us enemies, then?” Oh, mercy. The words had slipped out before she’d had a chance to consider them.
His mouth curved in a wolfish grin. “Does it, indeed? I dare say it might.”
Her fingers tightened on her goblet. How stupid of her to have spoken of enemies. Her situation was more than precarious enough. Forcing a teasing lightness into her tone, she said: “Well, if we are at odds, I am content to be so, for you treat your enemies well. You tend their wounds, give them a comfortable place to rest, offer them wine.” She raised her goblet in a mock toast.
Osric raised his goblet in return. “To be fair, as enemies go, you have not posed much of a threat.”
She stilled, her drink halfway to her lips. Did he consider her to be an inferior opponent? Lowering the goblet to her lap, she said, “You hardly know me. I could be winning your trust whilst I plot a most dreadful demise for you.”
His grin broadened. “I have slain Saracens twice the size of you, love.”
“With your bare hands, I suppose?” she said drily.
“More than once.”
She rolled her eyes. “Last night, if you remember, I did warn you of my knife. I was prepared to use it.”
His smile turned sly, roguish. “’Twould not have been of much use, though, against my broadsword.”
“You would have had to draw your blade.”
“You would have had to draw your dagger. I must confess I also had a hidden knife that I was prepared to use. ’Twould have been quicker to draw than my sword, so I suppose ’tis fair to say we were…somewhat equally prepared to protect ourselves.”
Frowning, she sipped her wine, not a poorly aged red, but one of excellent flavor. “Lord Seabrook, if you are making fun of me—”
“Not at all. I am sure you would have made a most challenging opponent if I had been foolish enough to attack you at the ancient site, or when you were hurrying away in the dark…and if you had not fallen into the tunnel.”
Ugh. “My fall was most unexpected. I would never have guessed a tunnel ran under that part of the field.”
“That part?”
Beware, Violetta.
“How many times before have you been on my lands?”
The need for caution weighed upon her. However, the stone circle was well known throughout Wiltshire. Folk gathered to hold rituals there at certain times of the year. Children played among the standing stones. “I have visited the field a few times,” she said. Far more than a few, but she’d rather keep that to herself. “Did you know about the tunnel?”
Osric shook his head. “I plan to explore it and learn as much about it as I can.”
“I am fascinated to know more, too.”
“Is that so?”
“’Tis a mystery that must be solved.” She could hardly wait to uncover the secrets of the belowground passageway. ’Twould be more excitement than she’d seen in months.
“Why do you care so much about a secret tunnel on my estate?” he asked.
She couldn’t tell him she was fascinated because the tunnel was also on her father’s lands. “Who knows what might be found down there?”
“Treasure, you mean?” Osric’s disparaging tone told her he didn’t believe there was any.
“’Tis possible the passageway could hold treasure. Have you heard the old tale about the thief who supposedly buried stolen riches at the stone circle?”
Osric’s gaze flickered. “I have. Do you believe the old stories to be true?”
“There must be a bit of truth to some of them. However, I do know many folk in the past have tried to find the thief’s hoard and failed.”
His mouth flattened, while he traced the rim of his goblet with his thumb. “If riches are discovered, do you intend to claim them?”
A curious question; one she must answer with care. “I have not considered such a circumstance.”
“Do you believe you would be entitled to such a claim, because you were the one to find the tunnel?”
The sense of entrapment she’d experienced earlier returned. ’Twas unfair of Osric to pressure her in such a manner.
“I am not interested in becoming rich, Lord Seabrook. I yearn for the adventure to be found in discovery.”
~ * ~
Osric held her stare, full of conviction and challenge. Her answer had pleased him. He, too, enjoyed the thrill of discovery. ’Twas one more thing he and Violetta had in common.
Sensual heat simmered in his gut, for she was exquisite with her eyes blazing and her cheeks tinged pink. Her expression reminded him of their meeting years ago. He’d been eight years old and days away from leaving Coltingstow to begin training to be a knight, the afternoon he’d confronted her.
“What is your name?” Osric demanded. He’d fled the castle for the ancient site to be alone. Instead, he’d come upon a girl picking wildflowers; a very pretty girl close to his own age. She’d obviously heard him sobbing, for as he neared the stone circle, she straightened, appearing concerned.
“Your name.” His words held the brusqueness his sire often used to speak to servants.
She didn’t cower, though, or lower her gaze. “What is yours?”
With an impatient swipe of his sleeve, he dried his hot, tear-streaked face; he winced as the cloth grazed his left cheek still throbbing from the blow from his father’s fist. “I do not have to answer to you.”
“Mayhap not, but you could at least be respectful.”
Guilt poked at his conscience and mingled with his anguish. Osric clenched his hands, while his chest heaved from his fast running, and sweat trickled from his brow into his hairline. He longed to drop to his knees, sob, and pound his fists against the ground, to scream at the unfairness of all that his sire had said and done. But, this beautiful girl might think Osric a sniveling whelp—as his father did.
His eyes burned with fresh tears. She must have noticed, for her expression softened with sympathy. “I am Violetta,” she said. “Are you all right? Why are you crying?”
He frowned, for he only knew of one girl named Violetta. He’d never met her in person, but she’d never be his friend, for she was his foe. “Are you Violetta Molineaux?”
She looked about, as though to confirm they were alone, then nodded.
“My name is Osric.”
“You are Lord Seabrook’s son?”
“Aye.”
“Oh.” Grasses crunched as she took a hasty step back and glanced toward the wall.
“Your family is enemies with mine,” he noted, usurping the step she’d yielded.
“I meant no harm. I only wanted some flowers.”
Turmoil churned within Osric. While part of him urged him to let her take what she liked—grazing livestock would eat the flowers anyway—another, wounded part wanted so badly to lash out at s
omething. Someone.
He pointed to her bouquet. “You should have asked permission before you picked those.”
“You are right. I should have—”
“’Tis stealing.”
Defiance hardened the set of her jaw. “My mother is unwell. I thought some flowers would cheer her up.”
“’Tis a shame your mother is ill, but there must be blooms on your father’s lands.”
“There are, but the ones in your field are better.”
“So you decided to take what you want from my sire’s estate.”
She swallowed hard. “Surely your father will not miss a few blooms.”
“Are you certain of that? You are not just any thief; you are also the enemy.”
When she didn’t answer, just studied him in silence, he smirked. “Guards are on their way here.” They weren’t, as far as he knew, but she needn’t know that. “I will order them to arrest you.”
“What? Nay—”
“You will answer to my sire for stealing and trespassing.”
Before he’d finished speaking, she’d dropped the flowers and raced for the wall.
The sound of rustling fabric brought Osric back to the present. Violetta set her goblet on the side table. When their gazes met again, he struggled with remorse over that long-ago encounter, for he’d behaved badly.
Lying on the ground beneath the night sky at Acre, while listening to the snores and restless stirrings of fellow Crusaders, Osric had pondered difficult moments in his life. He’d thought about what he’d change if he survived to return to Coltingstow.
He’d wished for a wife and children, and to be a far better husband, father, and lord than his sire had been. Having witnessed so much slaughter, he’d wished for an end to the hostilities between the Molineaux and Seabrook families. And he’d wished he could relive his meeting with Violetta; to be chivalrous the second time around, not arrogant and cruel.
By some divine miracle, last night, he’d been granted that second chance with her—although for now, he must pretend only to know her as Lettie.
Before he allowed her to return to Darringsleigh, he’d apologize to her; ’twas the right and honorable thing to do. He’d also make known his desire for her. Like most warriors who’d faced each battle wondering if ’twould be the one in which they’d be slain, he hadn’t lived as a monk. He knew how to pleasure women. How tempting the urge, to put down his drink, pull Violetta into his lap, and show her just how skilled he could be.
Captured Hearts and Stolen Kisses Page 5