by Tamara Leigh
Sincere? Or a concession to gain a greater concession? “What would you ask of me, my lady?”
Her hand on him tensed as if steeling her for rejection. “’Tis wicked cold outside, and you must agree my brother’s men should not be made to pay any portion of my debt to you.”
“I agree, but for the safety of my people, I cannot let inside my walls so great a number who wish me and mine ill. However, they are free to leave any time they wish.”
“Without me.”
“Without you.”
“You know they will not.”
“Thus, I sent food, blankets, and firewood last eve.”
Her eyes widened, and she gripped his arm more tightly.
Thinking it strange he was more aware of his tilted smile in her presence than with his father, who had so disapproved of it during his son’s younger years that punishment had been doled out, Griffin gave her one. “Perhaps further proof you have put others’ sins upon me?”
She looked down, but not before tear-bright eyes provided another glimpse of the soft, vulnerable side her misery had revealed last night. “I thank you.”
“Is that all?”
“All?”
Though certain his daughter watched, he laid a hand atop Quintin’s. “Though I cannot permit you the full height and breadth of Castle Mathe, I would grant you more comfortable accommodations in the keep.”
She shook her head. “’Tis best I remain in the tower.”
That surprised, but he said, “As you will.”
She drew her hand from beneath his. “And now I ought to return.”
“Stay.” He nodded at Thomasin. “On so dreary a day, my daughter would enjoy company at the hearth where she is to complete a piece of embroidery promised to me for near on a fortnight. Perhaps you might even aid her in mastering the stitches.”
At Quintin’s hesitation, he added, “I would be grateful were you to grant me this boon.” What he did not voice was the hope it would distract her from whatever losses she had sustained that, were she alone, might return her to the state in which he had found her last eve.
“I shall grant it, Baron.”
As he stared at her, he acknowledged what he should not. Beyond a good path for his children and peace for his people, he did not want much. But this he wanted. A woman quick of wit and tongue to walk and sit and lie beside him…to hold close and give his warmth to on long winter nights…to bear sons and daughters to raise into worthy men and women.
Impossible. Unless he—and she—defied a king and he cared not that his children were well provided for and his people found peace. Aye, impossible.
“Then ’tis time you knew my Thomasin,” he said.
“Whom I shall not know as a sister-in-law,” she murmured, then averted her eyes.
Having glimpsed what she held behind her resolve, he took her arm and led her forward.
An unladylike sigh, then, “I am hopeless.”
Bending near the framed linen, picking out wayward stitches with more thought than was necessary to distract her from the fates of Bayard and her mother, Quintin said, “Not hopeless, Lady Thomasin. Inexperienced. It took years ere my own needlework was fine enough to be worn on the outside of garments.”
The young woman seated beside her on the padded bench leaned forward and caught up her companion’s skirt, revealing Quintin’s ankles and calves to any who gave eye to the ladies before the hearth. “As my poor maid can attest, I will be an old woman who no longer has a care for pretty things ere I am able to stitch anything half as beautiful as this.”
“Lady Thomasin!” Quintin dropped the embroidery in her lap, snatched the skirt whose lower portion she had months past adorned with vining leaves, and yanked it down her legs. And groaned when she saw Sir Otto, set to watch over her in his lord’s absence, had naught better to do than give his full attention to her. He was not grinning, though only because he tightly pressed his lips.
“Forgive me,” Lady Thomasin said. “I did not mean to embarrass you.” Then she made a sound of disgust. “I do hope Sir Otto does not tell my father I forgot myself again.”
Quintin once more took up the embroidery frame. “Would he be angry?” she asked, curious if the affectionate sire he seemed was only appearance.
“Not angry, but disappointed. Rightfully so, I suppose.”
“He is a good father?”
“Indeed!” No hesitation. But then Lady Thomasin suppressed a grin as Sir Otto had done. “The woman he weds—and of late I wonder if ’twill be Elianor of Emberly after all—will have naught to fear when she places their babe in his arms.”
Quintin knew what she implied, and to keep her fist from her belly and the ache in her breast, she resumed picking at the threads.
“I apologize,” the lady said. “’Tis just that I have watched my father and you, and though I myself know nothing of great affection, I am encouraged by the way you look upon and touch each other.”
Again, the embroidery landed in Quintin’s lap. “I know not of what you speak, Lady Thomasin, only that ’tis improper.”
The prettily plain wisp of a lady sighed. “So my father would say, but I like you, and if it passes you should become—”
“Why?”
Lady Thomasin blinked.
“Why do you like me? And how can you? Though you were not present when I put a dagger to your father, you must know of it.”
“As do all. ’Tis true I was prepared to dislike you, but my father explained the circumstances to my brother and me, and once I had the opportunity to observe you, I did not see that you were of a bent to have followed through with your threat even had he not bested you.” She leaned near and, lowering her voice further, said, “I do not think I could have followed through either, though a fist and well-placed knee have served in my defense against unwanted attentions.”
Surely Griffin did not allow his daughter to be bothered by his men?
The lady gasped. “Not here. I speak of ere I came to live upon Blackwood—whilst I served as a maid at Waring Castle.”
“Oh, I am sorry. For that your mother sent you to your father?”
Disbelief leapt off her face. “My mother?”
“Forgive me,” Quintin said. “’Tis what I heard.”
The young woman gave a bitter laugh. “My mother abandoned me. ’Twas I who alerted my father to my existence and appealed to him for aid.”
And Griffin, who time and again proved he was not a villain, had done more than give aid. He had claimed his illegitimate daughter and made her a lady. “I am glad you are treated well here, Lady Thomasin.”
She smiled. “Though I am misbegotten, none would risk my father’s wrath. Or should I say blade? Too, I do not present as much temptation as I might were I the great beauty ’tis said Lady Elianor is—and you as well, my lady.”
“I am no great beauty.”
“Perhaps not great, but a beauty. Though you wear your hair short as if to deny a man’s hands the glory of it, still men look upon you and long.” She nodded at Sir Otto. “He and my father are not the only ones.”
Quintin knew she drew the attention of men who looked first with the eye and, had they any substance about them, later the heart. As Lady Maeve was fond of reminding her daughter, Quintin was blessed with a pleasing face and figure. Were she still of a mind to wed as she had been before her brother’s ill-fated marriage, she would set herself to maintaining long tresses, but since there was no longer any gain for her to willingly join with a man, she had better uses for her time.
Lady Thomasin lifted the embroidery from Quintin’s lap and wrinkled her nose. “At least when your brother appears, he will not have to add to his loss of Godsmere a wife whose beautiful stitches he could proudly wear outside his garments.”
When your brother appears…
It was said with certainty he would. Despite the fire at Quintin’s back, a chill ran through her. Was it possible her apology to Griffin was unwarranted? That now the day required to
wed was past, he would release her brother to suffer his losses? But then, what fool would he be to do that? He would have to know that an enemy all the greater for such treachery would exact terrible revenge. Even were Bayard imprisoned in such a way there was no evidence of who held him, he would look first to the De Arells as had Quintin.
Hating that the man who had held her last eve might be all she had first believed, hoping Lady Thomasin could believably explain herself, Quintin said, “What makes you think my brother will appear?”
“My grandfather—” The lady gaped. “Oh, have mercy!”
“What of him?” Receiving no response, Quintin laid a hand on the young woman’s that gripped the bench’s seat. “I fear for my brother. If you know anything of his disappearance, do what is good and right and speak.”
Lady Thomasin glanced at Sir Otto who now conversed with another knight. “’Tis only speculation, of which I should have said naught.”
“Why?”
“Though my father forbids me to visit my grandfather, I defy him. Pray, promise you will not speak of it.”
“You have my word.”
Thomasin studied Quintin’s face. “My grandfather believes that if ’tis true The Boursier was stolen from his bed—”
“It is true.”
“Then it is not intended he should die.”
As was Quintin’s belief. And hope. If Bayard’s death was sought, why convey him elsewhere when it was easier and less dangerous to turn his bed red? Unless there was a purpose beyond the loss of Godsmere…unless a greater evil than supposed wished him to suffer long.
“He says that if your brother is as extraordinary a warrior as your father—well, he is not so civil as to use the word extraordinary, but ’tis what he meant—then The Boursier will free himself.”
“Is it true your grandfather is unable to leave his apartment?”
The lady raised an eyebrow. “You think he may be responsible for your brother’s disappearance.”
Quintin shrugged. “As he has ever been our greatest enemy, he cannot wish to see a De Arell joined to a Boursier.”
“He does hate your family, but I do not think he had a hand in this. Certes, not his own.”
Though surprised the lady allowed he could be involved, and if so it would be necessary to enlist another’s aid—surely his son’s—Quintin forced her face to remain impassive. “Your grandfather is quite ill, then?”
Sorrow crimped her mouth. “Quite.”
Quintin glanced at Sir Otto and his companion who stood between her and the stairs. Though tempted to try again to reach the apartment, were she able to, there would not be time enough to convince the old man to open the door. And if he did let her in, the wily Ulric de Arell would not reveal anything of consequence. As for Bayard being there, it would be too bold not to have moved him following Quintin’s arrival at Castle Mathe.
The door to the great hall opened only enough to allow Rhys de Arell to enter on a gust of chill air. Mantle and chausses crusted with snow as if he had rolled around in the white mess, he narrowed his eyes at Quintin before giving his regard to his sister.
Recalling he had stomped off when his father had introduced the two ladies, and hoping to temper any concern over her interest in Ulric de Arell, Quintin said, “Your brother is not as willing to offer forgiveness.”
The lady grinned. “Ah, but when he does, you will find him forever underfoot. Which is not all bad providing you watch where you step.”
Quintin doubted she would be at Castle Mathe long enough to test that.
“I am to study my sums,” the boy called as he strode toward the stairs. “Will you help me, Thomasin?”
Hoping she would defer, Quintin held her breath.
“Embroidery or numbers,” the lady mused. “Numbers or embroidery.” She smiled apologetically and stood. “It seems we shall have good cause to speak later, my lady.”
Quintin also gained her feet. “I would like that.”
Lady Thomasin hastened after her brother, and when she went from the hall, Quintin retrieved her mantle and crossed to Sir Otto. “I am ready to return to the tower.”
Outside, the falling snow swirled in the biting breeze. If not for the efforts of the many who moved shovels and carts, she would have been up to her ankles in it.
As she and the knight neared the inner wall, he said, “It appeared Lady Thomasin and you had much to speak on.”
Wondering if he might know something useful, Quintin said, “Methinks I would have liked her for a sister-in-law.” What she did not say was that if the De Arells were responsible for Bayard’s abduction, that would be impossible. Not only because they would never be forgiven, but the king had said—
Quintin halted. Regardless of who had taken Bayard from his bed, if he lived and escaped as Ulric de Arell believed him capable of, all might yet be restored. True, the king had said he would accept no excuse if the marriage did not take place by the appointed day, but surely an exception would be made for abduction. It would have to be proved, but if anyone could make good on that, it was Bayard.
“My lady?”
She smiled. “’Tis a better day than expected, Sir Knight.”
His answering smile was uncertain, but it reached his eyes.
She blinked. “Why, Sir Otto, you have Foucault eyes!”
His smile jerked. “What say you?”
“A gold ring around the brown.” She gestured at her own. “Of course, it sounds vain to claim an eye color for one’s own. I am sure there are many who see out of such eyes.”
“Indeed.” He strode ahead and opened the door for her.
Quintin had not meant to offend, but it seemed she had. Might he be the son of a knight who had served her grandfather, Denis Foucault? One as disaffected as Boursier, De Arell, and Verdun had been?
She nearly asked but decided it was best to leave the matter be so they might sooner return to the easy company enjoyed before she had pointed out that Foucault blood ran as thick through her as Boursier blood. Too, more than any other at Castle Mathe, Sir Otto could prove an ally.
CHAPTER TEN
Two more days, making this her sixth at Castle Mathe, and all that had changed was the snow had ceased to fall on the day past. Still no tolerable shelter for her escort. Still no relief for her mother who might have taken to bed. Still no further opportunities to speak privately with Lady Thomasin.
Hoping the dull ache in her head did not portend a miserable menses, Quintin looked across her shoulder at Griffin’s daughter. The young woman sat on the stone hearth with her skirts tucked around her and leaned near her brother to explain a problem he worked.
Three days now, the boy had used the excuse of his studies to draw his sister away from Quintin, but this time Lady Thomasin had insisted they remain in the hall to provide a semblance of company to their father’s guest.
Kind of her, but of no use. Only frustration—amid growing despair. As Bayard had yet to appear, there seemed little chance he would.
Breathing deep to hold in anguish lest it bounded out on a sob, Quintin considered the hall. The servants having finished setting it aright following the nooning meal, there were few about. But there were three wolfhounds. Two did not concern her, occupied as they were with snuffling among the rushes in search of morsels, but Arturo sat beneath the high table watching her.
As ever, Quintin looked away and stopped on the knight leaning in an alcove near the entrance to the hall. Not Sir Otto. Though the young knight was present for meals, he had not kept watch over her since the day she had offended him.
A groan. “Is this not what a steward is for? Why must I learn it?”
“As father told, Rhys, an ignorant lord is a bootless lord. If you would be baron and wish to remain baron, you must know what others do for you. Now try another.”
Quintin did not wish to be alone, but fatigued from too little sleep and the struggle to keep a face on her inner writhing, she lifted her mantle from the bench and stood. Grateful
brother and sister did not look around, she started across the hall.
The knight stepped from the alcove. “You are ready to return to the tower, my lady?”
“I am.” She fastened her mantle about her shoulders, followed him outside, and wished she had departed sooner.
Griffin ascended the steps two at a time, his mantle flaring out behind him.
Though he halted a step down, still she had to look up to meet his gaze. “Mayhap I shall see you at supper, Baron.”
“Mayhap?” There, that smile of his, and she could hardly bear it.
Affecting a lightness that had become increasingly necessary these past days, she said, “I am tired.”
“And disheartened.” He glanced at his knight, nodded the man away, and took her elbow.
She did not wish his accompaniment but was thankful his footing assured hers on steps that remained icy in places. She allowed him to retain his hold on her all the way to the tower room, but at the landing she pulled free and stepped past him.
“Why have we returned to where we were, Quintin?”
She slowly came around. “Returned?”
He closed the distance between them, and she had to put her head back to hold his gaze. “Two days past, you apologized lest you had wronged me. I thought trust might grow from there. But since, your accusations—albeit unspoken—are once more between us.”
And she had thought she hid it well. “Trust, Baron? Pray, how is that to grow while still you keep me under guard and bolt my room?”
“’Tis not only a means of keeping you safe from yourself—”
“Myself!”
Annoyance flickered in his eyes. “Aye, Quintin Boursier, who left the safety of Adderstone’s walls in foul weather and put a dagger to a warrior—in both instances risking her life alongside the lives of her brother’s men.”
She could not argue that.
“Too, methinks given the opportunity, you would again seek my father’s apartment. That I will not risk.”
“What have you to hide?”