Dreams of Lilacs

by Lynn Kurland

  Gervase looked at Joscelin for aid, but Joscelin only smiled.

  “He has a point. Pierre, why don’t you take Yves and see what Cook has on the fire still. Then we’ll make plans on what of your Latin to ignore. Best to give Lord Nicholas a reason to let the Lady Isabelle come back.”

  “We can do that,” Yves said. He patted Gervase on the shoulder, then hopped off his lap. “Let’s go, Pierre. There is much to do.”

  Gervase listened to the younger lads leave, then looked at Joscelin. “Any other spectacular suggestions?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  Gervase imagined he was. He looked at Guy who had moved to stand with his back to the fire. “Are you now going to tell me you knew who she was?”

  “Who, me?” Guy asked in surprise. “I’m the one who told you to put her to work scrubbing the floors. Why would I have known who she was?”

  Gervase supposed it was better not to offer the opinion that Guy was obviously as dull as he was when it came to recognizing noblewomen going about in disguise.

  “How did Lord Nicholas react?” Joscelin asked politely.

  Gervase rubbed his hands over his face. “Let’s just say that the only reason I’m still breathing is because he’d left his sword inside his hall.”

  “What are you going to do now?” Guy asked. “Send gifts? Apologies? Wine?”

  Gervase sighed deeply. “I’m going to eat, soak my sorry leg, then make a measured retreat to my bedchamber where I will give the matter thought and hope that tomorrow the sun will rise on a new day. It can’t be any worse than today.”

  “If you say so,” Guy said doubtfully. “I’m not sure gifts will be enough to restore Lord Nicholas’s good humors.”

  “Do you have any suggestions on what might?” Gervase asked sourly.

  “Your head on a pike?” Guy asked seriously.

  Gervase scowled at his brother and congratulated himself yet again for having chosen Joscelin to tourney with. He left his solar with a choice curse or two trailing along in his wake. Guy was probably right, but that didn’t mean he had to agree.

  He limped to the kitchens and made himself at home on a stool while Cook prepared his bath. He looked over the events of the day and examined them from all sides. He could have wished for a different outcome, but the truth was there had been nothing else to expect. He could hardly blame Nicholas for his anger, though he supposed he might be spending a bit of extra time in the lists on the off chance he was able to repay Isabelle’s brother a bit more thoroughly for the insult to her honor. But as for anything else, what could he have expected? The most he could hope for was that Nicholas’s guard might provide him with enough sport to take a bit of the edge off his fury.

  But where Isabelle was concerned, perhaps there was a goodly labor to be done there. Gifts sent along at the appropriate time. What could possibly go wrong with that?

  Cook stopped next to him with a basket. “Any preference with these, my lord?”

  Gervase looked at the basket of fragrant things, then shrugged. “Toss them all in, I suppose. I can’t tell any of them apart.”

  “As you will,” she said, tossing the entire collection of things into a tub of steaming water.

  Gervase began to pull off his boots, then froze. While it was true he had no idea what rot Isabelle had put in that basket, he could identify the odd herb and flower. And if even he could manage that, how much more would she be able to recognize? He could send her a message that even her reprehensible brother wouldn’t be able to decipher.

  He smiled for the first time that day.

  Perhaps all was not yet lost where she was concerned.

  Chapter 13

  Isabelle left her chamber, which was yet another in a large list of guest chambers her brother possessed in his French castle on the edge of the sea. That castle was, she had to admit, a spectacular place. She had been there before, of course, so she wasn’t surprised by the opulence. She was simply surprised to find herself enjoying it so abruptly.

  She pulled the door shut behind her and steeled herself for the conversation she’d avoided having the day before by pleading a sudden and quite severe headache. Convincing her almost eldest brother that her head pained her from her tortures at Monsaert had been pitifully easy. He had immediately sent her off to lie down with wine and food hard on her heels. It had given her a chance to look out the window and breathe in the sea air, but it hadn’t eased her heart any.

  Gervase hadn’t gone so far as to look at her as he’d ridden off through the gates.

  She walked along the passageway and tried not to let the memory of that sting. After all, what could she have expected? Her brother had humiliated him in front of her, his men, and those of Beauvois who had cared to watch. She was only surprised that instead of simply turning away from her, Gervase hadn’t snarled curses at her before he’d gone.

  She supposed she would never see him again.

  She walked out into the great hall and sighed a little in spite of herself. Her brother had many faults—being almost as pigheaded as Robin was the first one she latched on to—but stinting on luxurious surroundings was not one of them. She supposed he did it to please his wife, Jennifer, but she was happy to be the beneficiary of it at the moment. The hall was of pleasing dimensions, the ceiling painted in a particularly Gallic way, and the furniture sumptuous even in a locale that saw so much coming and going of servants and strangers.

  Nicholas was standing in front of the fire, looking far too grave for her peace of mind. He caught sight of her and immediately crossed the hall to fetch her. He took her by the hand and drew her over to the fire, saw her seated, then took a deep breath as if he prepared for a very long, stern lecture.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” she said shortly.

  He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. She lifted her chin.

  “What?”

  “What?” he echoed. “What? Isabelle, what in the hell are you doing in France? By yourself? Missing very sensible accoutrements such as a heavy guard with very sharp swords?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. As I said yesterday, I think I’m on a quest.”

  His mouth worked, but not a sound came from him. During that bit of spluttering, they were joined by another who collapsed happily in the other chair drawn up close to the fire.

  “Go away,” Nicholas said shortly.

  Miles only propped his booted ankle up on his opposite knee. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you here.”

  “Afraid I’ll hamper all the shouting you want to do?”

  “Something like that,” Nicholas said. “Now, go away.”

  Miles only put his hand over his mouth. “See,” he said, his words muffled, “I can hold my tongue.”

  “You won’t have a tongue if you use it in the next half hour,” Nicholas said, in clipped tones. “Isabelle, what in the hell were you thinking?”

  She sighed gustily. “I believe I already answered that.”

  “You were being held captive by Gervase de Seger,” Nicholas bellowed. “Do you have no idea of your peril?”

  She shrugged. “He seemed fairly harmless to me. Slightly cross, but that can be readily explained by the pain he still suffers in his leg.”

  Nicholas ground his teeth. “He has ravished half the virgins in France!”

  Isabelle looked at Miles. “Is that true?”

  “Rumor,” Miles said dismissively. “Not that he isn’t a handsome-looking man, of course, full of pleasing courtly manners—”

  “We thought you were dead!” Nicholas interrupted with a shout.

  Isabelle looked at her brother standing there in a towering rage and sighed. She had considered fleeing her father’s keep numerous times, but what had kept her from it had been the thought of leaving her family, her brothers especially, in exactly the sort of state Nicholas currently found himself in. De Piaget lads were nothing if not protective of the women in their care.

  She rose and went to
put her arms around her brother’s waist. She held on to him until he finally relented and returned the embrace, so tightly that she squeaked involuntarily.

  “You witless chit,” he said hoarsely, “we thought you were dead.”

  “So you’ve said,” she noted. “Repeatedly.” She pulled back to look up at him. “I’m sorry. I lost my memory—”

  “I imagine your escort in a particular coastal village you would be wise never to name aloud wishes he had lost his,” Nicholas muttered.

  She pulled away. “Montgomery?”

  “The very same. I understand even mentioning that port sends Father into absolute fits of fury. Montgomery, I imagine, has removed the word from his vocabulary altogether.” He shot her a look. “What you may not remember is that you left the poor lad in an inn, unconscious and clutching not only a gown but apparently the hair you seem to be missing.”

  “Clever me,” she managed.

  “When will you gels stop cutting off your hair?” Nicholas complained. “You all seem to do it save Jenner, who is the only one with sense among you.”

  “It is a long and glorious tradition.”

  “Please allow it to stop with you,” he pleaded.

  She ran her hand over what was left of her hair and spared a regret for its loss. She resumed her seat and looked up at her brother. “Did I clout Montgomery over the head with something or did he simply volunteer to stay behind?”

  “Ask Miles later,” Nicholas said. “He has answers I don’t. All I know is that Father will be absolutely livid when he learns where you were.”

  “But—”

  “At Monsaert, of all places! With that damned Gervase de Seger—” Words seemed to fail him for a moment or two, then he took a deep breath and seemed to find his tongue. “He’s a rogue of the worst sort.”

  “So you claim,” she said calmly, “but all I’ve heard is that he has humiliated you more than once with the sword and unhorsed you at least thrice that his brother Joscelin remembers. Your pride has been stung.”

  “Nay, I don’t want my youngest sister associating with a man possessing no redeeming qualities.”

  “I think you’re misjudging him.”

  “And I think you’ve never watched him at court,” Nicholas growled.

  “And you have?” she asked with a snort. “You, an Englishman?”

  “Bearing a French title?” he said pointedly. “Aye, I have.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Hardly,” Nicholas said contemptuously. He chewed on his words for a moment or two, then rolled his eyes. “I will allow that there are things about him that another might find acceptable. He is—or was, rather—a fair swordsman and marginally skilled in the joust.”

  “Nick, be honest,” Miles said lazily.

  “Very well, he was terrifying,” Nicholas snarled at him. “He’s also a ferocious bargainer, ruthless to enemies, and unfailingly loyal to friends as well as the one half brother I met. He was also continually trailed after by an endless collection of beautiful women. He took full advantage of their charms.”

  “Has he any bastards?” Isabelle asked.

  “Rumor has it—”

  “Not rumor, Nicky, demonstrable fact. How many bastards has he claimed?”

  “Why would he claim any?”

  She shot him a look.

  He swore. “Very well, why wouldn’t he, I suppose. And nay, damn you, I’ve seen no proof. Fortunately for us all he has provided ample evidence of his stupidity. That’s seen easily enough by the fact that he put you to work in his kitchens.”

  “I’m not saying he can’t be an idiot,” she said easily. “He is a man, after all.”

  Isabelle realized she was talking to emptiness at the same time she realized her brother was no longer standing in front of the fire. She looked after him as he trotted across the great hall and disappeared up the stairs, then looked at her next oldest brother.

  “He’s excitable.”

  “Nervous rather,” Miles said, smiling, “though I’m not sure why. Jennifer has at least another fortnight before the babe arrives, or so she believes. Her mother and grandmother will be here well before the birth.”

  Isabelle would have commented on that, but she had to admit she shared her eldest brother Robin’s opinion of things that were . . . odd. The fact that Jennifer’s mother didn’t seem to have a hall in England and that her grandmother was likely as old as Queen Eleanor herself—a woman rumored to have her own pact with unwholesome sources that kept her living long past when she should have lowered herself into her grave—was something that Isabelle didn’t think on often.

  Paranormal oddities made her nervous.

  And cold. She rose and stood with her back to the fire. “Let’s speak of something else.”

  “Very well. Are the tunic and trousers yours?”

  “I filched them from one of Gervase’s brothers,” Isabelle said.

  “You have a terrible habit of that, you know.”

  “I learned it from Amanda.”

  Miles smiled. “I imagine you did.” He rose and stood next to her, warming his own backside against the roaring fire. “You look to be plotting something.”

  “Your demise, no doubt,” she said absently. She looked out over the hall and shivered. “I feel like we’ve done this before.”

  “How many times haven’t we done this before? For as much of our lives as I can remember. Me, exhausting myself trying to convince you to see reason—”

  “Ha,” she said crossly. “It was generally you plotting mischief and me trying to talk you out of it.”

  “I suppose you have that aright,” he conceded. “Only this time, it looks to have been you off combining mischief.”

  “It wasn’t mischief,” she said, “it was an adventure.”

  “Well, you did tell me you planned on one.”

  She turned to face him. “Did I? When?”

  “Before you left Artane. You plotted and I listened, then offered my very sensible advice. You were extremely grateful to yours truly when I instructed you to stay at Artane whilst I saw to a bit of business for Nick at Wyckham. Indeed, you promised me that you would wait for me to return after which we would both don trousers and have ourselves an adventure by traipsing off to France in disguise.”

  She wished for a wall to lean against, but supposed she would just have to rely on her own two feet. “Very generous of you,” she noted. “I’m assuming I agreed to this very generous offer.”

  “You did,” he said easily. “And then you didn’t, if you know what I mean. I returned home to find you gone, then filched a horse and rode like a demon south to try to find you. By the time I reached the inn where you had laid your youngest brother low, you’d been gone at least four days.” He looked at her seriously. “I learned from lads on the dock that your ship had been lost at sea.”

  She shivered. “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be. I almost shed a tear or two.”

  She elbowed him companionably in the ribs. “You always were a maudlin thing.”

  He smiled wryly. “And so I am.” He reached out and ruffled what was left of her hair. “And to answer the question I can see you’re preparing to ask, aye, I found a ship and sailed to France myself to see if perhaps you might have miraculously survived. I’ll give you the details of that later. What I will tell you now is that I sent a message off to Mother and Father yesterday to let them know you’re alive and they can stop looking for you.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “My pleasure.” He slid her a look. “You know, your demon lord from Monsaert didn’t show all that well yesterday. I imagine he wasn’t too pleased about that.”

  “Were you spying on him?” she demanded.

  “Thought I’d be useful.” He smiled. “Wasn’t that useful?”

  “Not very,” she said. She pulled a chair closer to the fire, then sat down with a sigh. “What still eludes me is why in the world I would have ever wanted to come to France on m
y own. Outside of the usual desire to be off and having an adventure. I imagine that if I’d suggested the like, you would have told me to venture to the shore or some other rot.”

  He laughed and pulled up a chair to face herself. “As it happens, you did and I did. But that isn’t the reason you left England.”

  She felt something slide down her spine, a finger of chill she hadn’t expected. “Can I assume you know the reason?”

  “You can,” he said carefully. He glanced about them, no doubt to make certain they were relatively alone, then he looked at her seriously. “I found your diary.”

  “You are reprehensible,” she breathed. “What did it say?”

  “You assume I read it.”

  “Of course I assume you read it! What did you find there?”

  He looked at his hands for a moment, then at her. “I think we should back up a bit. I’ll tell the tale and you stop me when I’ve told you something you don’t already know.”

  “Fair enough,” she agreed.

  “Very well. You made it very clear that you wanted to come to France sooner than with Mother, though you wouldn’t tell me why you were so hell-bent on the idea.” He looked at her, then shook his head. “There was something fey about you, Izzy, something I’d never seen in you before. I wouldn’t have left you to your own devices if Nick hadn’t been relying on me to see to his business for him. Believe me when I say I looked for every way possible to shove it off onto someone else. I couldn’t, though, which left me leaving you behind and praying you wouldn’t run off on your own.”

  “Which I apparently did.”

  “You had your reasons.” He paused, then shrugged. “Suffice it to say that by the time I caught up to you in Alnmouth, you were gone and Montgomery was quite reasonably fearing for his life. I sailed to France, as I said, and after a bit of searching found your captain half dead in a small fishing village. He confirmed that you had been aboard his ship when it had been swept away.”

  “But you didn’t find me,” she said slowly.

  “Nay, but we found one of your boots washed up on shore,” he said, “and I found Arthur of Harwych wandering from place to place, wringing his hands and searching for you.”