by Sara Lindsey
He straightened. “Hate women? No, I am as fond of women as the next man.”
“For a man fond of women, you certainly have a mean opinion of us,” she retorted.
He shrugged. “I am simply aware of the weaknesses of your gender. It doesn’t follow that I hold those flaws against you.”
She gaped at him, unable to think of any suitable rejoinder.
“And speaking of women’s weaknesses,” he continued, “let us go into the Great Hall, where we can sit and I’ll tell you of Rhoslynn.”
He gestured her through a tiny wooden door that connected the chapel to the Great Hall. They made their way to the cluster of chairs set before the enormous stone fireplace where he had carried her only the day before. It seemed a lifetime had passed since she set foot in Castle Arlyss.
Lord Sheldon settled back and began his tale. “Long, long ago—”
“And not at all far away,” Livvy added.
“Are you going to tell the story, or am I?”
She settled back in her chair and folded her hands primly in her lap.
“Very well then, as I was saying, long, long ago, there lived in this castle a beautiful maiden called Rhoslynn. Her mother had died giving birth to her, so she was the great pet of her father and her five older brothers. Such attention did not make her spoiled, though, and Rhoslynn grew up to be as lovely and kind as a woman can be.
“As her mother and her grandmother before her, Rhoslynn had a gift for physicking; there were many who believed the Rhys women had fairy blood in them and with it the ability to heal. People would come from great distances for one of her salves or for the touch of whatever magic she might possess.”
The marquess chuckled, shaking his head. “Great believers are the Welsh. In any case, one day, whilst gathering herbs in the countryside, Rhoslynn came upon a man lying on the ground. She saw a horse some yards off and figured he must have been thrown. Not knowing if he was unconscious or dead, she immediately dropped to her knees beside him and felt at his neck for a pulse.
“His skin was cold beneath her fingers, and she feared she was too late. She bowed her head and tears rolled down her cheeks, falling on the man’s head like a gentle rain. Suddenly, the flutterings of a pulse tingled beneath Rhoslynn’s fingertips, and when she placed her face on the man’s chest to listen for a heartbeat, there it was, sure and steady.”
“The magic,” Livvy whispered, unable to contain herself. Then, before the marquess could roll his eyes or launch into a lengthy diatribe on the impossibility of magic, ghosts, or any other such metaphysical phenomena, she quickly went on. “So Rhoslynn brought the stranger back to life. What happened then?”
“The stranger opened his eyes and beheld the fairest maiden he had ever seen and, in an instant, he knew however far he might roam, whatever distant lands he might visit, his heart would always stay there with her.”
“Typical male,” Olivia muttered. “She’s beautiful, so he loves her.” She glanced at the marquess and saw he was watching her with bemusement. “I beg your pardon. I won’t interrupt again.”
“Doubtful,” Lord Sheldon said, but he continued on. “When Rhoslynn gazed into the stranger’s eyes, she too felt her heart swell and knew however long she lived, there would never be another she would love so well as this mysterious man.”
There was a long moment of silence. Livvy was torn by the desire to stay quiet, as she had said she would, a need to know what happened next, and a growing itch to remark on Rhoslynn’s ability to fall in love with a man without even knowing his name.
“That can’t be it,” she finally blurted out.
“No,” he agreed.
Her brow creased. “Then why did you stop?”
“I felt certain you wished to make a comment.”
She shook her head and motioned him to go on, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right.
“The man asked the name of his fair savior but, upon learning it, he knew himself to be cursed, for Rhoslynn’s father was none other than the infamous rebel leader he had been sent by the Crown to destroy. The newly appointed Deputy Squire of Haverfordwest, Sir Philip Kentchurch, had been chosen by King Henry IV himself after Sir Philip’s predecessor was killed defending the castle at Haverfordwest against a siege laid by Rhoslynn’s father and his followers. Duty urged Sir Philip to take Rhoslynn captive and hold her as a hostage—”
“He wouldn’t!” she exclaimed.
“But,” he spoke over her outburst, “he knew in his heart he could not. He asked Rhoslynn if she, too, felt the strength of the connection between them. She said she did and asked for the name of the man who had engaged her heart so quickly. Sir Philip warned her that her family would disapprove, but even after she learned his identity, Rhoslynn remained constant in her affections, though she could not imagine how they could ever be together.
“Sir Philip vowed to find a way and gave Rhoslynn his signet ring as a sign of his fidelity, though he cautioned her to keep it hidden. They arranged to meet in the same spot one week from that day, by which time Sir Philip hoped to have worked out a solution to their seemingly impossible situation. When the time came for them to part, Sir Philip told Rhoslynn, ‘I will think of thee every second of every minute of every hour of every day that shall pass ere we meet again.’ And Rhoslynn replied, ‘And I will see thy beloved face in every seed of every fruit of every flower of every tree I pass ’til you come for me.’ ”
Olivia snorted. She couldn’t help herself. “That’s doing it a bit too brown, my lord.”
“I didn’t make up that tripe,” he protested. “I am telling you the story as it was told to me.” He frowned at her. “It was my understanding women enjoy that sort of overblown romantic sentiment.”
“I am sure a great many do, but I do not count myself among their number. There is more to romance than pretty, meaningless words. I would have been happier to hear he swept her off her feet with a passionate kiss.”
“Would you indeed?” he murmured, staring intently at her lips.
Unused to such blatant perusal, or the hunger it stirred within her, Livvy rose to her feet. “Perhaps you could continue as we walk about the room,” she suggested. “I would like to observe the tapestries in closer detail.”
The marquess stood and offered his arm to her. She didn’t wish to take it—she was too discomfited by the way he made her feel—but she had no choice. She rested her arm as lightly as possible upon his sleeve and tried to ignore the heat from the skin beneath.
“Now, where were we? Oh, yes, your desire for a kiss. You will be pleased to learn Sir Philip did steal a kiss from Rhoslynn, but only one, lest he be tempted beyond bearing. Then he strode to his horse, vaulted into the saddle, and rode off. Rhoslynn watched until he was out of sight, then gathered up her herbs and headed for home, nearly skipping in her happiness. Her father and brothers could tell she had met with some excitement while she was out, but mindful of Sir Philip’s warning, Rhoslynn told them only that she had come upon a wounded hare and had been able to heal it. The Rhys men were also in high spirits, for they had spent the day planning their next assault against the English, but Rhoslynn knew nothing of this.
“Though she longed to tell someone, Rhoslynn dutifully kept the secret close to her heart, along with the ring. She placed it in a little pouch, which she filled with yarrow and rosemary and other lovers’ plants, then hung it round her neck. Her father and brothers went out hunting two days before she was to meet with Sir Philip, and they came back in wild spirits. They took turns telling Rhoslynn how they had successfully taken the castle at Haverfordwest; how the new English lord had ordered his men to stand down; how he had sent a messenger bearing a white flag of truce.”
“How wonderful!” Livvy exclaimed with delight. “Now that is a truly romantic gesture.”
Lord Sheldon eyed her askance. “Perhaps you should hear the end of the tale first. Rebel forces, as you may know, rarely hold to the rules of civilized warfare. C
ivilized warfare,” he sneered. “Now there’s a contradiction in terms if ever I heard one. And in this instance, warfare is the wrong word. Slaughter is more appropriate.”
Olivia gasped.
He nodded grimly. “When the messenger went forth, Sir Philip’s men laid down their arms in a show of goodwill. Rhoslynn’s father and his men struck while they had the advantage. The English lord refused to defend himself and was quickly dealt a mortal blow. After that, the soldiers surrendered the castle. When Rhoslynn heard this, she ran and locked herself in what is now the Old Tower, which has always been the tallest in the castle. The chapel used to be there, at the top, so no one would walk above God. The chapel you saw was built after Rhoslynn. . . . For all she was a healer, she couldn’t mend her broken heart.”
The hair on Livvy’s neck stood on end. “She threw herself from the tower?” She knew the answer even as she asked.
“Her body was never found, but no one ever saw her alive again. The pragmatists insist the body must have been dragged off by wild animals. The fanciful claim she was spirited away by the goddess Branwen, who also died of a broken heart. In either case, the moral of the story remains the same.”
“Don’t fall in love with the enemy?” she guessed.
“Always a good rule to follow, but I believe the true lesson imparted by Rhoslynn’s folly is that love is every bit as destructive as war.”
Livvy pulled away from him. “You’re wrong. War is destructive, but love is its antidote. Nothing could be worse than losing a loved one, but even then love triumphs over death, for the memory of those loves lives on in the hearts still beating. Love is the stuff of hopes and dreams, which are in turn the stuff of life.”
“You, Miss Weston, are possessed of a romantic nature. I fear your life will be fraught with disappointments.”
“As opposed to you, who have not suffered disappointment?” she shot back.
The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile, but his eyes were sad. “I too was once possessed of a romantic nature. I have found life is much simpler if one ceases to have expectations. If you will excuse me, I have important matters to attend to.” He bowed and walked away.
She let him go. He had given her quite enough to think about for one morning. The marquess was a puzzle to be sure, but she would figure him out. She wasn’t one to back down from a challenge—No, that wasn’t true. She had backed down from any number of her older siblings’ dares, but really, their admiration was hardly worth her mother’s wrath. She didn’t give up, though. Not on puzzles, not on people, and certainly not on puzzling people.
Chapter 5
“Leave thy vain bibble-babble.”
Twelfth Night, Act IV, Scene 2
Olivia awoke suddenly in the night. Heart racing, she scrambled out of bed, clutching her quilt to her chest. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her skin, causing her thin lawn nightgown to cling to her body, but the chill in her chamber soon turned it to gooseflesh. She squinted into the darkness, trying to discover what had awoken her, and then the hair on her nape rose. Slowly she turned around and what she saw left her stupefied.
On the opposite side of her narrow pallet she beheld a beautiful young woman, pale and diaphanous, clothed as in the Middle Ages. The apparition wore a flowing gown with wide, hanging sleeves, girded about the hips with a richly embroidered belt. For a moment, Olivia stared in incomprehension, frozen with terror.
The specter, seeing it had her attention, held out an arm. Olivia sucked air into her lungs and opened her mouth, but her scream died in her throat as the ghost gave a slight shake of her head and raised one pearly finger to its lips.
“Nay, be not affrighted. I mean thee no harm.”
Though the ghost’s lips never moved, somehow Olivia heard the antiquated words.
“I must be dreaming,” she whispered shakily. She slowly sank down to the floor, unmindful of the rough wooden boards beneath her knees.
“Thou art not asleep. I am as real as thee, albeit somewhat less corporeal. Hast thou not yet heard of the White Lady of Castle Arlyss?”
Olivia wet her lips. “I have heard. . . . No, this is impossible.”
“I pray thee, listen. I come on behalf of another, less tied to this world. She lingers, restless, unable to find peace until those she loves are also at peace.”
A faraway look came over her pearly visage.
“She says you must remain strong. He will resist, but he needs you. They all do.”
“I don’t understand.” Olivia shook her head in confusion. “Who is—? No, don’t go. Not yet. Please, come back!”
The apparition faded into shimmering moonlight.
“He needs you.”
The words reverberated through the tiny room, and suddenly Olivia sensed she was once more alone in her room. She rose unsteadily to her feet and moved to the door. He needed her. . . .
Olivia woke with a start. She scrambled to push aside the heavy curtains of the lofty tester bed, searching for some evidence of an otherworldly visitor. Nothing. Of course there’s nothing, she berated herself. You were dreaming.
It hadn’t felt like a dream, though. Everything had been so real. . . .
“He needs you.”
The words echoed in her mind. Was she simply recalling her dream, or . . . ? In a flash, she was out of bed, reaching for her wrapper. Before she gave herself time to think about what she was doing, she crossed the room and rapped lightly on the door connecting her chamber to the marquess’s. If he was asleep he likely wouldn’t hear, and if he wasn’t, if he needed her—
The door opened to reveal a harried-looking Lord Sheldon. His face was drawn and his hair was disheveled—but she couldn’t deny he also looked quite splendid in his red silk banyan. Then she heard it. The sound of a child crying.
“Miss Weston? Is something amiss?”
“I—I heard something and grew worried. Perhaps the door between our rooms was ajar,” she invented. Now was not the time to discuss the possibility that she had been visited by the castle’s ghost.
“I am sorry to have woken you, Miss Weston.”
Olivia peered past him and made out a little huddled mound in the middle of an enormous tester bed.
“Your son.” The words hovered between a question and a statement.
The marquess nodded. “Yes, my son, Edward. Now, if you will return to your bed . . .” He took a step toward her, clearly expecting that she would retreat to her chamber.
Livvy held her ground. “Does he have night terrors?”
Lord Sheldon let out an impatient sigh. “If you must know, Edward suffers from a chronic chest complaint. He is prone to asthmatic fits.”
“Has the doctor been sent for?”
“That old fool? His bleedings and blistering plasters nearly killed Edward.”
“Have you no other physician treating him? There must be something that can be done.”
He raked a hand through his hair, standing it on end. “I’ve sent for special doctors from London. I’ve bought special breathing contraptions and restorative elixirs. None of it does any good, and some of these so-called cures have left him a great deal worse. There is nothing for it but to wait it out.” He cast a worried look back at the bed.
The sight of such concern over his son stirred Livvy’s heart and left her feeling decidedly unsettled. Of course, it was an excellent thing for Lord Sheldon to care for his son, because such tender feelings boded well for his ability to fall in love again. What she didn’t like was her immediate, unfounded surge of jealousy toward the unknown woman who would one day claim his heart.
You are being ridiculous, she scolded herself. Feeling anything other than casual attraction to the marquess would be the very height of foolishness. He might have stepped out of one of her novels, at least when he kept his mouth shut. She, on the other hand . . . Well, no one would ever mistake Miss Olivia Jane Weston for a heroine.
No, she would never be a heroine, but she might be able to help Lord Sheldon’
s son if she could stop mooning over his father long enough to concentrate on the problem at hand.
“Do you know the cause of his ailment?” she asked.
“Anxiety. Excitement. A change in the weather.” He waved his hands in an encompassing gesture. “Any number of seemingly benign events and emotions can trigger it. He can go to bed in fine health and, with no warning, wake an hour or two later struggling to draw breath.”
“How awful,” Olivia said feelingly.
“Quite.” The marquess’s tone was clipped. “If you will return to your chamber, I must attend to my son.”
Olivia brushed past him and headed over to the bed. Perhaps it was having so many younger siblings, or maybe she had been born with more than her fair share of maternal instincts, but a child in distress was not something she could sit back and ignore.
Lord Sheldon snagged her arm, halting her progress.
“No. He is shy with strangers and crowding may exacerbate his symptoms.”
“He is a frightened child who is feeling ill.” She shook off the marquess’s hand and strode to the bed. “Hello, Edward. My name is Olivia, but you may call me Livvy if you like. That’s what Charlotte calls me. I am her cousin, you know.”
He was a beautiful child. With his dark hair and eyes, he was a tiny replica of his father, though his features still had the softness of youth. He was too pale, though, and the labored rasp of his breathing sent icy tendrils of fear spiraling through her. A fit of coughing wracked his slight frame, and Livvy took an involuntary step backward. She had no experience with sickness of this magnitude.
The realization left her feeling helpless and adrift. What was she doing there? Not just in the marquess’s bedchamber, but here at Castle Arlyss. What madness had possessed her to believe she, Olivia Weston, could help the marquess or his son? She was about to run back to her chamber when a sense of calmness settled over her, and she suddenly knew what to do. She didn’t know if the knowledge came from some deep-rooted instinct, or whether it came from outside her. Maybe it was a gift from the spirits residing outside space and time—a healer and a mother—who watched over the castle’s inhabitants. Wherever the knowledge came from, she was grateful.