by Paula Quinn
He turned to her again and nodded, beaming at her. “I believe ye have, my lady, but ye will never hear me grumble aboot it.”
“I better not,” she warned playfully and sipped her ale.
After they ate, Elias left the table again and disappeared with Alan and the promise of a surprise for the children. He’d arranged to somehow get Norman to play his lute and Father Benedict, of all people, to play a psaltery. The mood was peaceful and pleasant. Lily laughed with Eleanor at the way Annabelle and Terrick constantly bickered. Some things hadn’t changed.
Some things had, like Estrid admitting that she was glad Elias had come here—even if he and Brother Simon hadn’t stayed at her inn.
Lily kept in mind that her friend Helen had lost her child, but she was glad to see her smiling and enjoying the day. This was what they all needed to heal. Rest and companionship.
She was no longer willing to permanently leave any of them—not even to go to Invergarry.
The sound of banging outside drew them all to their feet. They hurried outside and found Elias and Alan. The men had set up a small wooden stage with pinecones and flowers attached to the top. They both disappeared behind the three-foot wall, both men having to crouch low so their heads were not seen over the makeshift stage.
Everyone waited a few moments. Not a sound was heard. Then, from behind the wall, a doll appeared and then another. They were crafted of fabric and acorns and pieces of wood and they moved to and fro over the stage thanks to Elias’ and Alan’s hands under the fabric of the dolls.
The children all moved closer and laughed at the faces Alan had carved. Two had huge noses and pointy chins and strips of cloth for hair, the other two were left bald and had no noses, but protruding chins.
Annabelle squealed with excitement when Elias poked his head out the side and asked the children to all sit. They did, and Elias and Alan proceeded to act out stories they made up as they went.
The children…and the adults laughed at the dolls’ antics and sat mesmerized, forgetting everything else but the dolls Annabelle affectionately called Big Nose, Baldy, No Nose, and Pinky (thanks to its pink “clothes”).
When the performance was over, the children took turns behind the wall, handling the dolls and making up their own stories.
Lily went to her husband and let him pull her under his arm. “Thank you for this. For everything.”
“The children seem to like it,” he said then kissed the top of her head.
“I think ‘tis masterful! Where did you first see such a thing?”
He shrugged and the movement pulled her even deeper into him. “France, mayhap Italy. I dinna remember. ‘Tis as if nothin’ before this mattered, and yet I know that it did. If I hadna fought, I would likely not have ever come here fer a remedy fer what ailed my heart. Everythin’ brought me right here to ye.” He smiled and raised his brow as if he were surprised and stunned by it all.
He awakened butterflies in her belly and she lifted her hand to her mouth and giggled.
“’Tis the truth,” she agreed, sobering. “Bertram brought me here. ’Tis one thing he did good for me.”
“Aye, Bertram. Ye said he was dead, aye?”
She nodded under his arm as they walked away.
“How d’ye know he is dead?” he asked.
“Because I killed him.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bertram Chisholm awoke in the bedchamber of a lavish manor house in Bromley. He looked around and then tried to sit up. He cried out from the pain in his hip and thigh and fell back on the bed. That bitch! The first time she missed, he was sure she was aiming for his balls. The second time she sent her blade flying into the back of his hip! Did she mean to hit him between his bones? It was the same kind of blow that Lion Heart had used on his arm. Bertram was still recovering from it and was sure he would never be able to use his sword again. Now this! His leg! He was going to find her and, this time, he would show her no mercy. He would kill her the way he should have years ago. Why hadn’t he done it already? He’d wanted to make her life hell. He’d even gone back to Sevenoaks when he was sick hoping to spread the disease to her and her friends, and if Louis’ bastard son were infected, so be it. Bertram wouldn’t have to put his knife to the boy. He’d rather not have such a grievous sin on his soul as killing a child. But Lily hadn’t become infected. She lost her husband and that made way for her stallion lover. She always came up out the dregs smelling like the morning mist.
“Who is there?” he shouted at the door. Who had carried him away dying in a pool of blood? It had to be his cousin’s men. Where was he? He demanded answers and shouted again and again until the door to his bedchamber opened. He narrowed his eyes, waiting to see who entered.
An older soldier, perhaps a little over two score years, came inside with two of his men behind him and another larger man at the rear of the two. He spoke calmly and with a chilling smile. His eyes were almost black, like his hair that was slicked back into a queue at his nape. His skin was tanned and weathered. Beneath his red uniform and muddy boots, he moved with elegance and authority.
“Mr. Chisholm, we meet again.”
It was Commander Roger Parrock, his cousin’s right-hand man. They had met once before in a castle in Winchester, when Bertram returned to Louis to tell him that his whore, Clare, had had a boy.
What should Bertram tell him now? That a veil of a woman had almost killed him and thwarted his mission?
“I was sent to retrieve a small boy called Edward. Where is he?”
“I had him but…he is with a woman—a slave of mine.”
“You let a slave woman injure you and take the boy?” the commander asked without so much as a hint of amusement or mockery on his face.
The man behind him on his left smirked at him, as did the bigger brute at the rear.
“Aye,” Bertram admitted, not caring what any of them thought of him. “She is a hellcat.” He thought about her slicing off his— “If I had my way now, I would make her wish she never crossed me.”’
“Well, you do not have your way now,” the commander told him with authority, making his voice louder. “The bishop wants the boy dealt with by this time tomorrow. Now, I must tell him that you failed yet again. Do you think he will be surprised?”
“I dinna give a shyte what he is.” Bertram belched and scratched his head. “I dinna care what ye do with the boy. I am killin’ the bitch.”
The soldier to the commander’s left mumbled under his breath, “I wonder why the bishop cares about what happens to a boy from some village.”
Commander Parrock turned his dark gaze on him.
The soldier stared straight into his eyes with defiance in his gaze.
Parrock released his sword and pierced the soldier through with his blade and then pulled it out and watched the soldier collapse to the ground.
He looked at the soldier unmoved on his right. “Do you wonder anything?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Good,” Parrock said with a slight smile. “I would not want to kill one as pretty as you just yet. You will do as I say if you want to live. You will help me and I will make things easier for you. Aye? Good. Let us get ready to leave this place. Mustel,” he said to the last man in the back.
Had Parrock just called the man Muscle, Bertram wondered? It would be fitting for he possessed many enormous ones.
“Help this miscreant stand and walk. You,” he pointed to the man on the right, “stay with him and meet me at the table later.” He turned to Bertram, who took little insult in being called exactly what he was. “Do you know where this slave took him?”
“Aye,” Bertram answered. “She likely took him to where he lived.”
“And where is that?” Parrock asked, his patience at an end.
Bertram had a feeling that Parrock wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if he didn’t need him anymore. He wouldn’t tell him exactly where to find the boy. It would keep him alive until he thought of something else.
“South of here.”
Parrock moved closer, his dark, merciless gaze on him. “Where?” he growled.
A lesser man would have shyte his breeches, but not Bertram. What could any man do to him that was worse than what Lily had done?
“I dinna know the name of the place or if it even has a name at all,” he said. “I need to show ye where it is.”
“Very well. Be outside in an hour or I will cut out your tongue, since you do not need it to speak.” He turned for the door and stepped over the first soldier.
The second soldier waited while the commander left and then he produced a blade that flashed in Bertram’s eyes so that he almost missed the soldier’s lightning fast movements. The man shoved the blade into Muscle’s guts and then turned around to stand face to face with his dying victim as he twisted his dagger. “That is fer pushin’ me.”
Bertram watched, stunned as Muscle went down with a thump. “Ye there!” he called out in his loudest voice. “Help me! I am the bishop’s cousin!”
The man turned around and aimed his striking green eyes on him. “I know who ye are.”
“And ye?” Bertram asked him. The stranger was a Scot. That was for certain. Would Parrock hire soldiers from Scotland? They were known to be particularly violent people. “Are ye one of Parrock’s soldiers?” He glanced down at Muscle, dead on the floor. “Or somethin’ else.”
“Somethin’ else. Now move yer arse or stay here and die.” He came near and gave Bertram his hand.
With the light from the hearth behind him and the crown of raven curls around his face, the man appeared radiant, like a dark prince come to aid Bertram in his ways.
Bertram took his hand and the man pulled him to his feet. Howling ensued. He would have a permanent limp from this. He may even have to walk with a cane! How would he ever fight again? What if Lily’s friend, the Lion Heart was there at Sevenoaks?
“If ye shout—”
“I need more time to heal!” Bertram cried out, cutting him off.
“Time isna mine to give ye.”
“I canna go yet! If she is there, she will remain there. ‘Tis where she lived, too. Tell him. Tell Parrock that I need a few more days, just a few. My wound is deep.”
“I’m not Parrock’s man,” the killer told him. “But I know he wants ye dead. He thinks quite poorly of ye, so I am savin’ yer life. Now get movin’. He has more men with him and will return. I will be gone. Where will ye be?”
Bertram believed him about the commander. Parrock walked on the edge, like him, crossing over from life to death and back again. If he didn’t fear the bishop, as everyone else did, he would kill Bertram. Bertram was surprised he hadn’t already. He’d been clever not to give the commander the information he needed. Should he go with this ruffian?
“Verra well. Help me.”
With aid, Bertram dressed quickly. His breeches had not been replaced and the blood had dried around the hole. Bertram looked through it, and then at the soldier. “She is a hellcat,” he warned on a low voice, “and though she seems afraid, watch oot for her blade.”
The Scot studied him. “Ye say she was yer slave.”
“Eh, that is correct,” he said with a grunt as he fastened his belt. “She was mine and then she turned on me and wed an old man to be free of me.”
The man smiled and Bertram was tempted to look away and keep this stranger from looking clear through him.
“Ye were particularly abhorrent in her estimation, I would wager,” the man remarked, his smile deepened into a smirk with a touch of something dark behind it. “So much that she would prefer the bed of an old man over sharin’ one with ye.”
“Particularly, aye,” Bertram grinned back, exposing three missing teeth.
The Scot laughed then led Bertram out of the manor house. He killed four of Parrock’s men on the way and set fire to the manor house.
Bertram watched the outlaw in awe, happy to be traveling with him. He wanted to get away from Parrock. He had never trusted the English commander. He figured this was his best chance of escape. The outlaw knew how to fight, that much was obvious. Why, he’d killed four men with ease, not including Muscle, speed and precision. It was like watching a masterful dance. Bertram needed him to fight for him. He would pay him anything.
The Scot put Bertram’s arm around his neck, pulling the shorter man up a bit, and they hurried out through a back exit. The soldier disappeared around to the front of the house for a moment and then returned with a horse a few moments later.
Smoke was beginning to make Bertram’s eyes sting. It was too painful for him to sit astride the large stallion, but bearable if he sat sidesaddle—like a woman. If he shifted his weight to one side, his wound wasn’t so agonizing. Still, twice, he thought of going back and letting Parrock kill him.
“Scot,” he said, trying not to sound too affected and mortified when the man leaped up into the saddle behind him. Sitting between the killer’s legs was bad enough. Sitting between them sidesaddle was the worst embarrassment Bertram had ever suffered. But he owed this man his life.
“What is yer name and yer offense? Mayhap I will ask my cousin and he will grant ye a pardon.”
The killer laughed but there was no humor in his gaze, only a detached iciness that Bertram had seen somewhere before.
“I am Tristan. Tristan MacPherson, and my offense is that I’m goin’ to kill the bishop, and now, ye are goin’ to help me do it.”
Bertram’s eyes opened wide staring at the Highlander. MacPherson? Bertram narrowed his eyes on him. Where had he—MacPherson. Elias MacPherson! No! This murderous mercenary couldn’t be kin to Lion Heart. His heart fainted within. Bertram would die before admitting it, but Elias MacPherson frightened him. Never had he seen anyone move so quickly once his knife was in the air—until he saw Elias MacPherson. But this one. Tristan, he said he was called. He moved even faster. His aim was to cause carnage and chaos, as the burning house and shouting men proved. He wanted to kill the bishop so killing a man of God didn’t bother him. Had Bertram been a fool to go with him? This MacPherson would never fight for him as long as his relative was alive. What were they, brothers? Cousins? Oh, was this the end of him? Bertram lamented. The pestilence didn’t kill him, would a mere man?
“Why do ye want to kill the bishop?” Bertram asked him
“Why does the bishop want to kill a babe?”
“’Tis his son.”
Tristan shook his head and stared at him. “And ye ask me why I want to kill him? No more questions. We are goin’ to Oxford to see yer cousin. Ye will help me get inside his castle if ye want to live.”
This could work to his advantage. Bertram didn’t care about his cousin, Louis, all that much anymore. They had been close as children, but Louis had become a pompous ass who thought he shyte gold. Bertram wanted Lily. He wanted to drag her through her precious village by her throat. First, he had to get to Sevenoaks.
“I know a MacPherson,” Bertram told him. “Elias. We call him Lion Heart.”
“My cousin.” Tristan took a good look at him and gave him a doubtful smirk. “Ye are friends with Elias?”
“Aye, he is a friend,” Bertram told him confidently. “I am a bit concerned that he might be in trouble.”
“Why?” Tristan’s brows dipped low over his eyes, making them appear darker, like roiling storms gathering in the distance. “Where is he?”
“In the middle of the plague.”
The killer pulled another dagger from somewhere on his person and held it to Bertram’s throat. “Ye are goin’ to show me where he is.’
Bertram pointed south and then thought of different ways to kill Lily as MacPherson set their horse toward Sevenoaks.
#
Another day and no one woke up ill. Could it be over? Was it possible that they were both truly going to come out of this alive? They and the children? Elias would have laughed at her. Of course he’d never doubted it for a moment.
“You gave me hope, even when you were i
ll,” Lily whispered across his chest. They had made love in a quiet house—thanks to Eleanor asking to keep the children for their wedding night.
“Ye have more courage than I, lass,” he replied, running his fingers over her bare back. “When I thought ye were infected, I didna think I could go on.”
“But you would have.” She nestled closer into him.
He nodded and spoke in a quiet tone. “I had to face what I didna even understand was such a terrible fear for me until I thought ye were dead. I had to stand against it as I had done with so many other fears. I couldna run and hide, though I wanted to. Anythin’ was better than goin’ back to Sevenoaks without ye. But ye lived and I was spared.”
She lifted her head and gazed at him. “And now you will be cherished and adored beyond measure by your wife and your children.”
He smiled at her and leaned down to kiss her. “Then I shall need nothin’ more.”
“You are terrifying, Elias,” she told him and licked his taste from her lips. “I have never seen a man fight that way you fought the bishop’s soldiers at the inn. I can see why you were a commander.”
“That is a part of me that will never come against ye, my lady. With ye, I am the gentleman knight ye deserve.”
She giggled and gave his nipple a little tweak.
He yelped out and sat up, folding her shoulders and head between his chest and thighs.
She squealed with laughter and leaped from the bed. She turned for the stairs and made a step to run but his arm shot out and took hold of her. He yanked her back to the bed and climbed on top of her.
He looked into her eyes while he pushed her thighs apart with his knees and then sank deep inside her. She cried out. He scraped his teeth along her neck and moved his hips, withdrawing and thrusting, tightening his buttocks on reentry. She held them and guided him with gentle squeezes and salacious little slaps.
“Ye are bold, lass,” he groaned and then erupted inside her, surging against her.
She watched and then rolled them over and took him from on top in the last moments of his rapture.
Aye, she was bold, and unafraid, and adventurous with his body. She worked her hips, undulating and pushing, impaling herself on him. She spread her body over his much bigger, much harder one, and trembled when he closed his arms around her, holding her waist in his hands.