Graham: Pirates of Britannia Connected World (Sons of Sagamore Book 2)

by Ruth A. Casie

  “I’m here at the earl’s request to review the guild account, his property, repairs, and productivity of the winery. I applaud your caution; however, I assure you I am here on his behalf.”

  “He should be here.” Her voice was so low, at first he thought he had misunderstood her. When he sorted out her words the muscle in his jaw tightened. He glanced at her narrowed eyes as he weighed what to say.

  He presented Hugh’s letter as a courtesy.

  She read it carefully. Twice.

  “This gives you influence over the chateau and the vineyard.” Isabella’s startled expression didn’t surprise him. Everything she said indicated she took a personal interest in the chateau and vineyard and she didn’t want any interference, especially from an Englishman.

  “Influence? I would say control. I will do what needs to be done and intend to be finished and gone in a week, two if necessary. But I will get my work done.”

  Isabella eyed him with a hostile glare while Jeanne Marie stared at him with a pleased smile.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” said Isabella. “I have work to do at the winery.”

  “I didn’t know you worked at the winery.” According to Charlotte and Miles, both women’s responsibilities centered around the chateau.

  “With fewer workers, every pair of hands is needed.”

  She didn’t wait to be excused. With her back straight, she marched out of the room.

  “Bella, don’t forget to close the gate.” Jeanne Marie turned to him. “You must forgive her. She’s taken it upon herself to make sure the winery’s successful. The girl’s been working closely with Nolan, the winery manager these last few months doing what she can to help him.”

  Isabella’s message to Charlotte did mention the workers had moved on. He stared out the window and glimpsed Isabella at the garden gate. Was she off to see Nolan? He was startled by his reaction. How had she managed to insert herself in his thoughts so quickly?

  Jeanne Marie moved his sword and placed it on the mantel. She stood, admiring her work. The sword rested as if it belonged there. “Maurice preferred archery to swords. This is where he kept his sword. It completes the room.”

  Her content expression pleased him.

  “Please, tell me about Charlotte and the wedding.” She sat with her hands clasped in her lap.

  He glanced at the door, eager to leave and go into Châlons so he could speak to the guild master and money lender. Once he had their view of things, he would speak to Nolan. He was sure that once they picked the grapes, the winery would return to normal. This was a temporary delay.

  What did he know of weddings? He thought to excuse himself, but when he glanced at her, Jeanne Marie’s eyes were impatient for information. He sat back. A few more minutes wouldn’t matter.

  He answered her questions. “The wedding was small, with family and a few friends. It was the middle of winter, the hearth was ablaze, and Charlotte was a beautiful bride.”

  “That sounds lovely.” When she paused, he thought she was done. But she asked, “Are you married?”

  The question stunned him. “I was. My wife, Isla died in childbirth along with the child some time ago.” The words came out with ease and without any pain.

  She gave his hand a gentle pat. “I am sorry for your loss. My Joseph died many years ago. I hated him for leaving me. I refused to let him go. Then I loved his memory and finally learned to live again.”

  He never burdened others with his loss. Never spoke of Isla. Jeanne Marie’s sincere, simple words, deep with emotion and understanding, touched him.

  “I appreciate your kind words. Thank you for the refreshments.” He stood, ready to leave.

  “I’ll have your room ready when you return. Don’t be too hard on Bella. She takes her responsibilities to heart. The chateau and winery are important to her. You need to understand, she and Charlotte grew up like sisters. They did everything together. They played, and as they grew older, studied their lessons. Isabella didn’t enjoy archery as much as Charlotte but exceled in math and wine-making. The books in the salon will show you where her interests lie: plants, medicine, history, and even some stories touched with a bit of chivalry and courtly love.”

  From what Jeanne Marie said, he suspected the girls interacted much like him and his brothers. They were more than beautiful women. If Isabella was anything like Charlotte, she was bright, strong-willed, and intelligent.

  “It is plain to me she feels a responsibility for the winery, but I must tell you I am here to sort things out. I will be here for one week, maybe two.”

  Jeanne Marie fumbled with her apron. “I understand. What has taken the countess so long to send you? That doesn’t matter. You’re here. Now off with you while I clean up.” She removed the cheese and bread and left the room.

  At least one person appeared to be on his side.

  Isabella slammed each receipt on top of a once neat pile on the office desk.

  “What has you so upset? You’re punishing those receipts as if you were stomping grapes.”

  She pivoted to face Nolan and knocked his winery journal to the floor. It landed with a thud and opened, showing organized columns, which didn’t surprise her. Nolan was always putting something into his journal. She didn’t say a word. Instead, she reached to retrieve his book and was startled.

  Next to each entry were letters rather than numbers. She picked up the book and thumbed through the pages, fascinated by the jumbled letters. None of them made sense. For a moment she thought it was another language.

  “What is this?” Isabella showed him the page.

  He took the journal from her hand. “I use a code instead of numbers. The workers do not need to know how much the winery spends or takes in.”

  She quirked her right eyebrow questioningly.

  “It’s simple really. Each letter represents a number from zero to nine. When I make my entry, I put down the letters rather than the numbers.” He slipped the book into his satchel. “Now tell me. Why are you upset?”

  She had swallowed her anger and let it grow in her belly until she couldn’t contain it, anymore. For the moment, it wasn’t Nolan, but Eldon – the one person she had cared for – stood before her. His betrayal tore at her even after all these years. He’d vanished out of her life with no explanation. White-knuckled, she gritted her teeth in an effort to shove all memories back down and regain her composure.

  “Isabella?” Nolan said softly and put his hand on her shoulder.

  She swung around burning with rage. Her anger ate at her, smothered her judgement, and destroyed the boundaries of her loyalty.

  Her breathing became more even. She opened her fist and flexed her fingers. Loyalty. That was what sparked her anger. Charlotte had been there when she was at her lowest, helped her, stayed up nights with her. How could she betray her now, send this man? This was so unlike her friend.

  “There is an Englishman at the chateau.” Isabella stared at the desk then tilted her head and glanced at Nolan. “When did the message from Charlotte arrive?”

  “I’m not sure.” Nolan glanced at the door. Recognition lit his face. “You mean Charlotte’s brother-in-law? He’s here?”

  “When did her message arrive?” She spoke to him as if he were a naughty child. “I’m sure you have it written in your book.”

  “Not long.” She locked eyes with him. “One or two—weeks. I kept forgetting to bring the message to you.”

  She cooled a bit, not that she liked the intruder any more than she had a moment ago, but appeased that Charlotte had sent proper notice.

  “He’s strutting around looking at everything. Evaluating for Miles. He said he would be gone in a week or two. I intend to help him find what he wants and get him out as soon as possible.”

  There was something about his lordship, a confidence and inflated ego that rather than irritate her, muddled her mind and had her struggling to maintain control. He was a man to be reckoned with, and she was every bit up to the challenge.
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br />   “Evaluating? I’m surprised. I didn’t think Miles and Charlotte would begin the process of selling the chateau so soon.”

  “Sell?” Isabella was on her feet.

  “Didn’t Charlotte write and tell you?”

  As girls, as young women, they were close. They told each other everything. Why would Charlotte treat her so poorly? Never did she think Miles or Charlotte would sell the chateau or the winery. Labatrelle Winery was Charlotte’s birthright.

  Isabella stepped over to the window and glanced at the vineyard. Maurice worked hard to develop his wine. How could they sell it?

  Nolan must be wrong. She would know if… is that why Charlotte’s messages have become fewer and far between? Had her close friend tried to tell her by sending less money? No. No, Charlotte would never do that. There must be another explanation.

  They can’t sell the chateau or the winery. The very thought made her ill. She glanced at the warm light coming from her grand-mère’s room. And her, this has been her home for more years than any other place she’s lived.

  Isabella gave her shoulders a shake and put on her battle armor. Miles must be traveling. Had he any idea his daughter was married to an English earl who had taken all control away from her? If Charlotte can’t fight, by all that is holy, I will protect my friend and her legacy.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” She had to get away before she burst.

  “Don’t you want to discuss the Englishman?”

  She gave Nolan an icy stare.

  He let out a deep breath. “I can spare some time. I’ll go with you.”

  “No.” Her response was immediate and emphatic. “You have my thanks for your concern, but you needn’t bother. Until tomorrow.”

  She couldn’t get away from Nolan, the office, and the Englishman fast enough.

  Isabella made her way past the vineyard on toward the river and Châlons beyond. It was not a long trek down the sloping hill into the valley. After days of rain and thick fog, she decided to take her time and soak in the sun’s warmth.

  At the boat landing she stopped to enjoy the breeze that followed along the current. The light wind that tousled her skirt and blew her hair cooled her face, and after a little time, her temper. More at ease, she went into town for her daily visit to the market.

  Stalls lined the square. Women bargained for their purchases. Men congregated and conferred mostly about grapes, new varieties, winery procedures, and always the weather. Children for the most part were well-behaved, but there was that element of rascal that ran underfoot no matter what their mother did. She wove through the stalls, edging through the crowds, drinking in the colors and aromas.

  “Mademoiselle.” Isabella turned toward the tanner and smiled.

  “Jacques.”

  He held up colorful leather strips, enticing her to come for a closer look.

  “To tie back your hair on this beastly warm day.” He held the strips against her hair. “No, this is too dark. The red is beautiful.”

  She looked through the strips on the table and picked one that was the color of raspberries.

  He clapped his hands. “Magnifique.”

  “Jacques, I know you too long. You would say that even if it looked terrible,” she teased.

  “Isabella, how can you say that? Anything you wore would be magnifique.” He put the brown and raspberry strips into her hand.

  “Jacques,” a customer called.

  “You go ahead. I can wait.” Regretfully, she put the leather strips on the table. Jacques moved along to the other customer while a bolt of cloth in the next stall caught her interest. She walked in and browsed the materials. When she looked up, she was alone in the back of the stall.

  “Yes, I heard the same thing, but I’m not even sure he can sell the winery.”

  Isabella stood still. Monsieur Olivier? The voices came from behind her. She stared at the drape at the back of the stall a few feet from her. On the other side of the drape was the back door to the guild hall. She turned to leave, but others had entered the tiny place. There was nowhere for her to go.

  “He’s only asking questions. I thought the winery was doing well. Cantrelle wouldn’t be happy about this.”

  “Excuse me,” she whispered, eager to get past the woman who blocked her way.

  The drape behind her opened. She refused to look back. Unable to move, she feigned interest in the goods. She picked up a piece of cloth and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. It was a fine linen, but she didn’t appreciate the quality. She put down the sample. All she wanted to do was leave. She inched her way out.

  “Here are the two leather strips.”

  She looked up. The woman blocking her was no longer there. Jacques was in front of her.

  She dug into the pouch she wore at her waist for a coin.

  “No need. They are paid for.”

  “By whom?” She looked around. Her eyes fell on Graham, who stood at the tanner’s table examining a leather satchel.

  She took the leather from Jacques and marched over to him. What right did he have to buy her anything?

  He didn’t look at her.

  Isabella waited, tapping her foot under her skirt.

  He put the satchel down.

  “What am I going to do with these?” She shoved the leather strips at him.

  Graham picked the raspberry colored strip from her hand, reached behind her neck, and tied back her hair as if he’d done it a hundred times.

  Stunned by the intimate gesture, she stared at him, unable to speak. With her defenses down, her breath caught at the gentle, honest look on his face.

  “Join me. I need to meet with Monsieur Olivier.” He nodded to Jacques, looped her arm in his and steered her toward the guild hall. “Do you know the guild master?”

  “Everyone in Châlons knows Monsieur Olivier. Do you know him?” She tucked the red leather behind her belt.

  “I met him in passing when I arrived.” They turned the corner and entered the hall.

  “Isabella. I’m glad you’re here.” Monsieur Olivier was average height. An older man with more gray hair than black, his eyes were clear with a sheen of intelligence.

  “Monsieur Olivier.” She said nothing else.

  He faced Graham. “I’m sorry; I had some urgent business.”

  Graham waved off the apology. “I’ve come to introduce myself and arrange to review the Eden accounts.” He took the letter out of his belt and handed it to Olivier.

  Olivier scanned the document. “This appears to all be in good order. Would you like to review the accounts now?”

  “Not today, I’m with Mademoiselle Girard. I’d like to come back.”

  “That’s fine. Let me introduce you to my assistant in case I’m not here when you return. I’ll have him make arrangements for you to meet Monsieur Gershon.”

  “You have my thanks.” Graham turned to her. “I won’t be long.”

  Olivier opened a cask and poured her a goblet of deep red wine. “Isabella, here is the recent delivery from Labatrelle.” Olivier stopped and stretched to look behind her. “The color of raspberries. It suits you.”

  Her hand went to her hair. “That’s kind of you.”

  “We’ll be back shortly.” The two men went off in deep conversation. Graham glided across the room with an ease that interested her. “Warrior” came to mind, broad but not brutish, lethal but controlled, and sensual in a quiet way. She looked away.

  First thinking about Eldon, and now, Graham. Englishman. He could continue to be as nice as he wanted. She learned that lesson and would never be vulnerable again. Not ever. No Englishman. No man.

  She glanced where the two were going as they disappeared through the doorway.

  Isabella took the goblet. In truth, she needed the wine and took a large sip.

  She spat out the wine in a fine spray some even reaching the cup. Nearly choking, she couldn’t get the vile liquid out of her mouth fast enough. This could not be a Labatrelle wine. Isabella looked at t
he cask. Branded on the head of the barrel she found the Labatrelle insignia. Her heart stopped when she saw the date. August 1288. This barrel must not have been topped-off, a process Maurice brought back from the Crusades as a way to keep the wine from turning to vinegar.

  One taste and no one would buy this. A broad smile spread across her face. A small voice echoed in her head. Who would want to buy a winery that made this wine? The vineyard wouldn’t command a high price.

  Perhaps she could buy the property. She had some funds. And the workers. If they all worked collaboratively, they could raise the money. The idea died before it ripened. It would take time to raise the amount she needed.

  Isabella looked at the doorway. Graham. This is Charlotte’s winery. She might have been angry at her, but she was still loyal and would never betray her. If the earl’s brother was going to sell it, she was going to make sure it sold for a high price.

  At the moment, she needed to get rid of this wine. How much more could there be? With any luck it had evaporated. She tried to shake the cask. Merde. Full. The small barrel was too heavy for her to lift and if she did, what would she do with it?

  The muttering of voices from the door where the men had retreated reached her ears. Her heart started to pound. She swallowed and forced herself to breathe. She didn’t have much time.

  A movement. A dark shadow streaked across the floor. Startled she turned away and bumped into the table. The cask wobbled. Her first reaction was to protect the wine.

  That was close. She turned toward the table and shook the table hard. Again, the cask moved. That’s when she observed the piece of wood tucked against its side holding it in place.

  Dare she? She heard the voices getting closer.

  She closed her eyes, screamed, and threw herself against the table making sure to dislodge the block of wood. With all her might she pushed the small barrel and sent it flying off the table.

  The cask bounced on the floor. For a moment she thought all was lost when it didn’t break open. It bounced and hit the floor again. This time it smashed into pieces spattering red wine everywhere as Graham rushed into the room. Olivier followed close behind and stepped lively to avoid a mouse as it skittered away under the table.