by Lynn Kurland
“Then cast caution to the wind and ride to the shore when it threatens rain.”
She would have glared at him, but the missive she’d shoved down the front of her gown was burning her like a handful of live coals. If she didn’t do what she’d been instructed to do, her entire family would die. Wasn’t that what had been said? She was to present herself in France, at the abbey at Caours, and not tell anyone why she was doing so. Her family would perish, or so the missive said, if any but she arrived. Details about her parents and siblings had been provided, details that could have only come from someone who had either observed her family closely or knew someone who had.
She looked down her nose at her brother. “I require a journey of slightly more substance than a trip to the shore. And I have it very well thought out, thank you very much.”
His mouth worked for a moment or two, then he resorted to blinking at her as if he’d never seen her before. “But why?”
Well, that was something at least that she absolutely couldn’t tell him. She cast about for something plausible to say, which wasn’t all that difficult. The truth was, she had been longing to have a change of locale for some time, for very particular reasons. She turned to face him.
“Because I’m tired of being merely the one who’s left.”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s what they call me,” she said. “The fathers who come here looking for a wife for their sons. They come for Amanda, apparently unable to reconcile themselves to the fact that she’s been wed for four years. Once they can no longer deny that Amanda is not for sale, they look around in consternation. After that—without fail—they announce that they’ll settle for the one who’s left.” She lifted her chin. “They don’t even know my name.”
He winced. “Oh, Iz—”
“And that, Miles, is why I want to make a journey on my own. So someone at some point in the future will know my name, even if it’s merely to associate it with an ill-advised adventure.”
He reached out, slung his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her into a quick embrace. Then he pulled away, put both hands on her shoulders, and looked at her seriously.
“The ones who matter know who you are.”
“Unfortunately, they are not the ones presenting themselves at the gates and offering to take my dowry.”
“Father isn’t forcing you to wed, is he?” Miles asked.
“You know he isn’t, but that hardly matters. I’m a score and three. Too old to be home and a burden to my parents.”
He shot her a look of disbelief. “You can’t believe they feel that way.”
“I feel that way.” She shrugged his hands off her shoulders and wrapped her arms around herself. “I know I’ll have to wed eventually, and I suppose I must needs wed someone who doesn’t know my name, but perhaps I could have at least a few days to myself.” She looked at him. “Before I give up my freedom.”
He shook his head. “I’m enormously glad I’m not a woman.”
“So am I. I wouldn’t be able to filch your clothes otherwise.”
He scowled at her briefly, then laughed apparently in spite of himself. “My clothes are far too big for you. I think even Montgomery’s wouldn’t fit you.”
“Which is why I set things of his aside several years ago.”
“You, Isabelle de Piaget, are a remarkable woman.”
“Desperate, rather.” She looked at him. “You won’t give me away, will you?”
He sighed deeply. “Fool that I am, nay. But,” he added, suddenly serious, “I will insist on coming with you.”
“But—”
“I must away to Wyckham for a day or two to see to business for Nick, but I will return as quickly as possible. I insist that you wait for me, then I will take you south myself. Without a guard—well, not much of one at any rate—and we’ll both go as a pair of lads. I guarantee you’ll have adventure enough.”
It was an offer she never would have expected and knew she shouldn’t spurn.
If only—
“Very well,” she said, wondering how much time she would need to spend in the chapel, repenting of her lies, by the end of her quest. “I’ll wait for you.”
“Vow it,” he insisted, “or I march across the floor and tell Father all right now.” He held out his hand. “Vow it.”
She sighed, rolled her eyes, then linked thumbs with him as they’d been doing since they were small. Foolish, perhaps, but it had been their sealing of secret bargains from the time they’d first hit upon the idea whilst about the goodly work of repaying Robin for some indignity perpetrated on their very young selves.
“Satisfied?” she muttered.
“I suppose I have no reason not to be,” he said, looking at her closely, “though I daresay your heart wasn’t in that last bit.”
“I’m tired.”
“Good,” he said. “Stay tired until I return. I’ll leave before dawn tomorrow, then return as quickly as I may.” He kissed her forehead, then put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t do anything foolish, Iz. I’m in earnest.”
“Me?” she said, finding that she couldn’t put a decent amount of scoffing in her tone. “Why would I do anything foolish?”
He pursed his lips, then released her and walked away. She resumed her place against the wall and watched him go. Men. Impossible creatures who were, she had to admit, quite often baffled by things they couldn’t possibly understand, such as the necessity of leaving on a quest to save one’s family.
She could only hope Miles wouldn’t kill her when he found her after realizing she had sailed for France without him.
• • •
Four days later, she stood in an inn, fully prepared to take a ship to France at dusk, and hoped that she hadn’t killed a different brother.
Montgomery lay at her feet, senseless and drooling.
It was her doing, of course. After Miles and John had left for Wyckham, she had convinced him to come south with her by telling her father she wished to see her mother’s mother, Joanna of Segrave, before she spent the summer in France aiding Jennifer with her new babe. She and Montgomery had been sent with a large guard, which she hadn’t considered an impediment to her plans. Surely no one would notice a lad slipping out the window and trotting off to the docks by way of the garden, would one?
She had presented her true plan to Montgomery and been utterly unsurprised by his unwillingness to participate in it. She had walked over to the window to rethink her strategy only to have Fate step in and offer aid where she’d least expected it.
Montgomery, always susceptible to even the possibility of feminine tears, had sighed deeply, then approached to see how she fared, no doubt thinking that she was on the verge of a decent bout of the former. He had apparently seen something on the floor he’d assumed was hers and bent to retrieve it.
She had turned, then spotted something herself, which was the trajectory Montgomery’s head would take when he straightened, and how easing the shutters open just a bit more might lead to an abrupt encounter for her very chivalrous if not stubborn brother. Her father had, as it happened, insisted she learn to cipher and do the odd calculation right along with her siblings. Who could have predicted it might serve her at just the moment when her straits were most dire?
She had swung the shutter open, shrieked for her brother to look out the window, then watched as he had caught the top of his head against the wood. He had gasped out a particularly unknightlike curse, fallen to his knees, then continued on his way down. She supposed it could be debated later, but she’d been fairly sure that hitting his head on the edge of a trunk on his way to the floor had contributed substantially to his state of senselessness.
Moving him had been impossible, so she’d draped her gown over his inert, manly form, then arranged her hair she’d cut off and fashioned into a makeshift wig over his head.
All of which had left her where she was, standing near the window and preparing to make her escape.
Montgomery groaned, then opened his eyes and looked at her blearily.
“Iz?”
She leaned over and patted his head. “Sleep, brother. You’re very tired.”
He frowned, but he apparently couldn’t fight the relentless closing of his eyelids. He began to snore.
She supposed he would survive.
She stood, had a final look at Montgomery to make sure he was still alive, then took her courage in hand and slipped out the window.
She carefully tiptoed along the roof of the floor below. It was more difficult than she’d suspected it would be, but she pressed on. She had spent her fair share of time listening breathlessly to her brothers’ most exciting tales, most of which had seemed to include daring escapes, so she’d known what to expect. A pity she hadn’t spent just as much time actually sliding down slippery wooden roofs and thereafter hanging from the edge of them as she had listening to tales recounting that sort of thing.
She wasn’t altogether certain she hadn’t made an unwholesome noise of some sort, but that couldn’t be helped. She looked below her, saw that only a well-rotting compost pile lay there, and let go of wood that seemed quite content to see the last of her. She landed ungracefully—flat on her back, actually—but quickly scrambled up to her feet. She brushed her cloak off, rather wished she hadn’t cut her hair with her dagger upstairs so it could have prevented a few things she didn’t care to identify winding up down her back, then put her shoulders back and continued on her way.
The streets were rather more populous than she would have expected, but ’twas a port town after all and there were seamen coming and going about what she assumed was their usual business. She walked down the way quickly, as if she were truly in a great hurry to be off and doing. She supposed the manly swagger could be saved for another time, when she had more experience with feigning an identity and a sex not her own.
The ship she’d selected for her journey was where she’d seen it earlier in the day, but it was obviously preparing to make sail. Isabelle felt a thrill of something go through her. It wasn’t fear, surely. It was excitement mixed with purpose. She would have preferred that excitement come with less of a desire to heave what little supper she’d managed earlier onto the nearest empty spot, but she supposed she would learn to manage that in time as well.
She looked about her for the only part of her plan she supposed Miles would have approved of: Arthur of Harwych, her chosen companion on the voyage south. She supposed she might pay a price eventually for ruthlessly using the affection of a would-be suitor for her own purposes, but she would pay that price later. She hadn’t been foolish enough to think she should cross the seas without someone to guard her back. Perhaps it was sheer good fortune that Arthur had appeared at her father’s gates—and only at the gates given that he was never allowed inside—the morning Miles had left for Wyckham. A quick conversation with him out of earshot of her father’s guards had resulted in his promise to meet her in her current locale and accompany her to France. He would likely spend more of the journey puking over the railing than being of any use to her, but that couldn’t be helped.
She supposed at some point she would need to tell him what she was about, but her plan was to simply insist that he return on the same boat to England and tell her family that she was safe. She had no doubt he would do whatever she asked of him, poor lad.
Unfortunately, at the moment it looked as if he wouldn’t be doing anything at all for her given that he was nowhere to be found. She muttered a curse under her breath. If the man arrived on time to his own burying, she would be thoroughly surprised. Obviously, she would have to see to her business on her own. She had no other choice.
She saw the captain standing on the dock, looking over his craft with a critical eye. He bellowed an order or two, then folded his beefy arms over his chest and frowned fiercely as he watched those orders be carried out without hesitation. A man not to be trifled with, obviously.
But he was no doubt a businessman and would be just as glad as the next man for a bit of gold in his purse. She walked up to him as if she had every right to, then stopped and waited for him to acknowledge her. She cleared her throat for good measure, then folded her arms over her chest as she’d watched her brother Robin do countless times when preparing to intimidate those less intimidating than himself.
The captain turned his head and looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “Aye, lad?”
“I seek passage,” Isabelle said in her manliest tones. “I’ve the coin to pay for it.”
“Let me see.”
She had a handful of gold sovereigns in a small sack she’d kept separate from the bulk of her funds, lest she reveal all she had at once and find herself without it. She held the sack up where the captain could see it.
“I’ll open it on deck,” she said firmly.
He scowled at her. “You’d best be sure those aren’t rocks or you’ll be swimming back to shore.”
“I’m sure.”
The captain nodded briskly toward his ship. “Keep your sword loose in its sheath and stay out of the way,” he advised. “Oy, there, damn ye, Ralf! I said lash that bloody barrel to the larboard side, ye fool!”
Isabelle hurried up the gangplank whilst the offer still stood, handed the captain her gold once she was on board, then watched him count it. He nodded shortly, pocketed the coins, then turned to do a bit more shouting.
She had to admit that there was a moment or two as the ropes were being hauled back onto the ship when she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake.
Those moments passed quickly enough. She stayed out of the way and concentrated on keeping her hood up around her face. Not a lock of her hair reached past her chin, her face was liberally covered in soot, and she had no bloody choice but to present herself at her grandmother’s abbey in France and satisfy whoever it was who had summoned her.
And hope he didn’t kill her for her trouble.
She contemplated that for quite some time, until she could no longer see even the torchlight from the shore and suspected they were fairly far out to sea. The moon was useful enough, she supposed, though even it looked as if it might soon be obscured by clouds.
She jumped a little when she realized the captain was standing next to her. She smiled, then realized she was a lad and likely should have been scowling, so she attempted that. The captain merely pursed his lips.
“Heard we’ve a bit of a blow coming our way,” he said mildly.
“Indeed?” Isabelle asked, then she coughed and attempted a response that sounded less like a squeak. “I suspected as much.”
“You’re welcome to shelter in my poor quarters if you like, my lady.”
She looked at him quickly, but he was only watching her with an assessing gaze. She supposed she could have protested a bit more, but there was little point.
“Was the gold not enough?” she asked grimly.
“Oh, ’twas more than generous,” the captain said, though he looked as if he wished it hadn’t been. “I’m as willing as the next lad to take gold and keep my mouth shut. I just have to wonder if your sire knows what you’re about.”
She felt her mouth go dry. “My father?”
“If I had the sense of a turnip, I’d turn the ship around,” the man said frankly, “for I’ve no desire to tangle with Lord Rhys.”
Isabelle felt her mouth fall open. “How did you know who I was?”
“Didn’t,” he said easily, “until we were well on our way and by then I couldn’t turn back. A few of my lads are more observant than I. Since your sister is wed, that makes you the youngest, doesn’t it?”
She supposed it did, but there was obviously no point in saying as much.
The captain shrugged. “There’s a storm bearing down from the north and I’ve no mind to fight it. We’ll make for France and I’ll see you safely to wherever you’re going.”
Isabelle sighed. “Thank you.”
He studied her briefly. “I can’t help
but think you’ve a good reason to be where you are.”
“Several of them, actually.”
He shook his head slowly. “Your father won’t be pleased, but I imagine you’ve already considered that. Now, do you care for one of my lads to keep you safe, or is your dagger deterrent enough? I’m assuming since you’re carrying one that you’re a fair hand with a blade.”
“Well,” she admitted, “my brothers wouldn’t actually cross blades with me, but I’ve made notes of all their most lethal movements should I find myself in a tight place and need inspiration.”
The captain’s mouth had fallen open.
“I have held a blade,” she said crossly. “I’m not completely without skill.” Never mind that she’d only fought imaginary opponents in the privacy of her own bedchamber. Her siblings had done the same thing in their youth.
“As you say,” the captain managed. He eyed the horizon behind her. “You might want to review your skills in a safe spot until the storm blows over.”
“I love a good storm.”
And that was the last thing she said for quite a while. She finally resorted to finding herself a place where she could wedge herself between a pair of barrels lashed to the railing. It seemed as good a place as any to contemplate her straits and wonder if a few prayers might not be called for.
• • •
Miles de Piaget strode into the inn, wishing he’d been able to savor the smell of the sea air outside. He supposed with as much of his life as he’d spent on the edge of the sea he should have been weary of it, but he wasn’t. Unfortunately, at the moment he was far too preoccupied with trying to find his sister to notice anything but his own panic.
He’d spent two days at Wyckham, then returned to Artane to find that Isabelle had already gone south with Montgomery, supposedly to visit their grandmother Joanna. He’d cursed her thoroughly—out of earshot of his unsuspecting parents—then run up the stairs at the back of the hall to waste no time in rifling through the contents of her bedchamber. He hadn’t been surprised to find her diary with all manner of notes made about doings in the lists.
He had, however, been very surprised to find a bit of stone that had obviously been chipped away and refitted over a place to secret the saints only knew what. He’d anticipated finding a collection of her most romantic thoughts. What he hadn’t expected was to find a missive from someone threatening to kill her family if she didn’t present herself as quickly as possible at a particular French abbey they were all rather familiar with.