Kingslayer's Daughter (The House of Pendray Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  New Cape

  Munro enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the busy market in the Bull Ring. “Reminds me of Edinburgh,” he remarked.

  “Where’s that?” Giles asked.

  Sarah rolled her eyes when Munro glanced at her and winked.

  “Dost thou know naught?” Mary asked the lad.

  “Edinburgh is the capital of Scotland,” Munro explained, putting a reassuring hand on the pouting boy’s shoulder. “I attended the university there in my younger days.”

  “My parents wanted me to go to university,” Giles replied. “But Mr. Battersby told them he thought it unlikely.”

  Munro chuckled. “Sounds like ye dinna care much for yer headmaster.”

  “I hate him,” Giles retorted with surprising vehemence.

  He was about to reply such schoolboy sentiments weren’t unusual, but Sarah took his arm and drew him aside as Mary and Giles walked on. He bent his head as she stood on tiptoe to speak close to his ear, elated she’d touched him voluntarily. He covered her hand with his own, hoping she was about to whisper some sweet nothing.

  “I am fairly sure Battersby made a practice of beating Giles,” she said.

  Anger took hold. “He’s just a bairn.”

  She hesitated. “I suppose one shouldn’t question the grammar school’s discipline, but it doesn’t sit well with me.”

  Her words confirmed his belief in her kind nature. “What about yer mother? Does she believe in beatings?”

  She increased her grip on his arm. “I barely know her, as you’ve probably guessed, but I’ll not allow it.”

  He took a chance. “How long is it since ye’ve seen yer parents?”

  She stared at the street for several minutes before answering. “It’s twelve years since my mother and I parted ways.”

  Munro was frustrated that he was no closer to understanding Sarah’s past. He had a feeling she’d given him a clue—albeit reluctantly—but Giles reappeared before he could continue the conversation.

  The apprentice pointed to a stall a few yards ahead. Mary Ward was haggling with the mercer over a small black cape.

  “Good Lord,” Sarah exclaimed. “I can’t afford that.”

  She tried to pull her hand away, but he held firm. “Dinna fash. I’d like to buy it for the lad.”

  She looked up at him with a mixture of indignation and relief that tore at his heart. “’Tis a pleasure to do little things for ye, Sarah. Ye canna be angry with me.”

  “No,” she replied. “I can’t. That’s the problem.”

  He took it as a hopeful sign, despite the sadness in her eyes.

  Sarah watched her mother and Munro haggle with the mercer. Their glee in securing a bargain was evident. Mary managed a smile when Giles swaggered back and forth in his new cape.

  “Feel the wool, Mrs. North,” her apprentice enthused. “My dad used to say Old Brown never gave an inch when it came to prices, but Mrs. Ward and Mr. Pendray wore him down.”

  She was happy to see a smile on his face. If Munro was her husband, she’d have been filled with joy at his obvious pleasure. But such a union could never be, and it would be better to face that fact.

  She was known in the market, though she had to hope Reginald had never revealed her history. Birmingham was still a hotbed of Puritanism, but there were many, even among fervent proponents of republicanism, who condemned the killing of a king.

  Fellow merchants were already giving sideways glances, probably gossiping about the tall Scot who seemed so friendly with her. “How long do you plan to stay in Birmingham?” she asked when Munro returned to her side.

  He raised his eyebrows as he linked arms with her. “Until Thursday, but…”

  Even through the thick woollen tunic, his warmth and strength sent a wave of longing into her womb, but a chill raced up her spine. She’d spent most of the Guild’s death benefit on the journey to Chepstow. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to repay you by then.”

  Once again he covered her hand, turning to face her, a hint of anger in his gaze. “Listen weel, Sarah North. I dinna intend for ye to repay me. I’d take it as an insult. And I’ll stay in this town as long as ye enjoy my company.”

  She looked away, afraid she might drown in the depths of his blue eyes.

  He crooked his finger under her chin and forced her to look at him. “Ye do enjoy my company?” he teased.

  She’d never been a liar, and Munro would recognize a lie when he heard one. “Too much,” she murmured, filled with an insane urge to kiss his fingers.

  Munro gazed at Sarah’s slightly open mouth, quickly dismissing the notion of brushing his thumb across her bottom lip. Instead, he bent his head and nibbled it. Her taste and the scent of her skin invaded his senses, stirring his male urges. A squeak emerged from deep in her throat, and for a moment he thought she might respond to his kiss.

  But she pulled away, eyes downcast. “I’m only recently widowed,” she muttered. “People will gossip.”

  She was right, and he cursed his insensitivity. He’d allowed his need for her to overtake his common sense. “I apologize, Sarah. ’Twillna happen again.”

  He detected a hint of disappointment in her brown eyes, so he tried once more to pierce the protective armor. “’Til the next time, at any rate.”

  Her smile came as a relief. “You’re incorrigible. Come on. Let’s find the meat pies. I’m hungry.”

  “I’m hungry, too,” he growled close to her ear, so there’d be no mistaking his meaning.

  Lovely Afternoon

  Sarah lit the candle lanterns and returned to her chair at the kitchen table, savoring the remains of the pork pie Munro had insisted on buying. She surveyed the dingy living accommodations Reginald had brought her to five long years ago. On that fateful day, he’d shown his true colors and the room had been her prison ever since. Only the shop brought temporary freedom.

  In just a few short hours, Munro Pendray had succeeded in banishing the gloom and dark memories with his ready wit and bonhomie—not to mention the array of delicious pies and sweetmeats he’d treated them to. It was still a mystery where he’d procured such fine quality ale to wash the treats down.

  Giles and her mother were smitten with the Scot. They laughed at his every jest. She was glad to see a blush redden her mother’s pale cheeks, but was nervous in case her tongue ran away with itself. Mary Ward evidently suffered no puritan scruples about imbibing the ale, but then Henry Marten was reputed to have been an overindulgent glutton. They likely hadn’t feasted on fine food and drink in Chepstow Castle.

  She grew nervous when her mother suddenly began to cough, and cough and cough. When her face turned beet red, Giles slapped her on the back. “Frog in your throat, Mrs. W.?”

  Mary took a deep breath and wiped away tears with the back of her hand. “Mercy! I nigh on choked. Just like my Harry.”

  Gooseflesh marched across Sarah’s nape. She glared and shook her head at the woman whose ramblings might destroy the first afternoon of real joy she had ever experienced.

  “Was Mr. Ward a hearty eater, too?” Munro asked with a broad smile.

  “Indeed. And he enjoyed his ale. But his name wasn’t Ward.”

  Sarah toyed with the notion of simply swooning in order to avoid the cataclysm about to befall her, but she’d known all along friendship with Munro would be temporary. She tightened every muscle in her body, prepared for the worst.

  “No,” her mother went on, “me and Harry were never married.”

  Utter silence greeted her words, until Giles—his mouth still full of food—piped up, “Does that mean you’re a bastard, Mrs. North?”

  Munro now knew she was illegitimate. He tried to hide his shock, but the color drained from his face. “Mind yer manners, young man,” he admonished. “And apprentices worth their salt dinna go telling all and sundry what they’ve heard in the privacy o’ their workplace.”

  “No, sir,” Giles agreed. “I understand about trust.”

  “Good lad. Now,
it’s getting late. Get settled down below. I’ll stop by before I leave.”

  Giles nodded and left without another word.

  Mary apparently decided she’d said all she wanted to say, rose from the table and wandered over to collapse on the bed.

  The bitter truth of Henry Marten’s crime remained unspoken.

  Swooning with relief was now a real possibility, but the magic spell cast over the room had been broken. Listening to her mother’s soft snores, Sarah waited for the axe to fall, trembling when Munro reached for her hand.

  “It doesna make the slightest difference to me,” he whispered. “Ye’re a beautiful, intelligent and caring woman, Sarah North, and I’m captivated by everything about ye.”

  The urge to scream almost overwhelmed her. Better that he’d politely excused himself, muttered his apologies and left. Now, the torment would go on until the fateful day he discovered the truth, and the admiration he professed would crumble. She ought to simply send him away, but she’d tried that, and it hadn’t worked. Munro Pendray had somehow insinuated himself into her blood. Smitten didn’t come close to describing her growing feelings for him.

  When he finally withdrew from her life, the room would once more become a lonely place filled with regret.

  A weight had lifted from Munro’s shoulders. He’d imagined all kinds of dark secrets in Sarah’s past and it turned out she was simply ashamed of being a natural-born child.

  A match between an earl’s son and the illegitimate daughter of…

  He paused, realizing he knew nothing of Mary Ward’s social status nor of Harry Whatever-His-Name-Was. Obviously, they weren’t wealthy, but then the Civil War had impoverished many.

  It wasn’t an ideal situation. However, his father had come from humble Welsh roots and his mother didn’t judge others. They’d support a marriage if they believed Munro loved Sarah.

  Though he’d never been in love before, the prospect of not seeing Sarah every day of his life filled him with dread. He thought his reassurance would calm her, but she still seemed upset. Perhaps Giles’ hurtful remark had set her on edge.

  He rose from the table when she began to gather up the plates and utensils. “I’ll speak to Giles again before I leave,” he told her. “I’ll make sure he doesna repeat what he heard.”

  She glanced at the bed, then back at him. The desolation in her eyes startled him. She withdrew a kerchief from her pocket and held it to her mouth, trying to stifle a sob. He gathered her into his embrace. “Dinna cry,” he whispered close to her ear, aware they were mere inches from her snoring mother. “I meant it when I said it doesna matter to me that yer parents never married.”

  He felt the silent sobs shudder through her body as he played with her hair. “Hush, dear one.”

  “This…was the…loveliest afternoon,” she eventually stammered into his chest. “Thank you.”

  He tilted her chin and looked into her eyes. “There’ll be more,” he promised, hoping he hadn’t gone too far when his hips took on a life of their own and he pressed his arousal to her mons. She’d been married so must know what the hard flesh pressed against her signified, but he had to remember his suspicions her husband had been a brute. “I crave ye,” he confessed, “but I want to bring ye pleasure as well.”

  Her frown betrayed her confusion. It was evident she didn’t understand. He might talk all day and never convince her, so he brushed his mouth over hers, then coaxed her lips with his tongue. “Open for me, Sarah,” he breathed.

  At first, she seemed intent on resisting, then she whimpered and allowed his tongue entry. His heart soared when she sagged against him and suckled. She clung to him as he lifted her off her feet and tightened his embrace.

  Their tongues mated. He breathed for her, cupping her bottom in his hands, reaping his reward when she entwined her legs around his thighs.

  He had a woman in his arms who craved the passion she’d been denied. “Sarah,” he rasped after they broke apart. “I ken ye feel the alchemy between us. Why fight it? I can offer ye…”

  His hopes faltered when her feet slipped to the floor. She shook her head vehemently and pressed a finger to his lips. “No, Munro. I don’t want to hear about what can never be.”

  He inhaled deeply and refused to let her move away. “’Tis understandable that ye want to stay in Birmingham, and I’m more than willing to remain here to help with the shop and…”

  “No,” she declared loudly.

  Mary Ward startled awake, her eyes wide when she saw her daughter struggling to be free of Munro’s embrace. “Thou’d best leave, young man,” she said hoarsely, struggling to sit up.

  He might have protested things weren’t as they seemed, but his embarrassed confusion robbed him of the ability to think. He retrieved his hat and bowed politely. “I bid ye ladies good evening.”

  He somehow got to the bottom of the stairs and had his hand on the handle of the door when he remembered his promise to Giles. He’d thought training a young apprentice might go easier on her if there was an adult male keeping an eye on things. Sarah had made it clear she didn’t want his help.

  However, a promise was a promise. He made his way in the gathering gloom to the workroom. Giles had clearly banked the fire in the wood-stove and now lay on the pallet. The boy’s broad smile assured him he’d made the right decision.

  “Good lad,” Munro said. “Ye’ll soon get used to this wee nook.”

  Giles nodded, but the smile faded. “It seems strange, sleeping by myself. We slept in a dormitory at the school.”

  “Ye’ll miss it for a while.”

  “No. I hated it there. I’ll be happier here.”

  “Mrs. North will be a good employer. Ye can learn a lot from her.”

  Giles yawned. “You like her.”

  How to explain his feelings to a bairn? “Aye, I do.”

  “Will you get married?”

  Munro shook his head. “I dinna think she is interested in marrying me.”

  Giles snuggled under the linens and closed his eyes. “You’re wrong. She likes you. I can tell.”

  Munro hunkered down next to the pallet, feeling strangely protective of this young lad he didn’t know at all. “Goodnight,” he whispered, but Giles had already dozed off.

  Back on his feet, Munro tiptoed into the shop, pausing briefly at the foot of the stairs.

  Hearing nothing, he made his way in the dark to the door, his heart leaping into his throat when Mary’s face loomed out of the shadows. “Mrs. Ward,” he began, afraid she meant to scold him further for inappropriate behavior.

  She grinned and held up the key. “Thou cannot get out without this.”

  Feeling like a complete fool, he nodded and stepped over the threshold after she unlocked the door. He was taken aback when she grasped his arm. “Thou mustn’t give up,” she croaked.

  “Has he gone?” Sarah asked when her mother returned to the apartment. She knew full well Munro had left, but supposed she had to confirm the finality of it. When Mary had reminded her about the key, she’d been tempted to lie that she didn’t know where it was.

  “Yes, he’s gone,” her mother confirmed. “Thou art a fool to keep pushing him away. One day he won’t come back.”

  Sarah wasn’t in the mood to argue with a woman who’d abandoned her and now sought to administer a scolding. “I don’t want him to come back.”

  “Of course thou dost. He’s the man for thee.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, especially when he finds out the identity of my father.”

  Mary recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “Thy father was an honorable, wise, witty man of principle who loved thee more than thou can know.”

  Sarah glared, tempted to shake some sense into her mother. “He was a regicide, a kingslayer, an assassin.”

  Mary perched on the edge of the bed. “I don’t expect thee to understand what it was like then. King Charles was a tyrant who thought he could ride roughshod over his people. Thy father’s voice wasn’
t the only one raised against this tyranny. Why else did we fight a Civil War?”

  Sarah remembered being told her father had mustered and commanded a troop of cavalry as its colonel. “But why kill the king after the war?”

  Mary shook her head. “Thy father came to regret that,” she confessed. “They were all swayed by Cromwell’s persuasive arguments, and he turned out to be a worse tyrant than the king.”

  Sarah had never imagined Henry Marten as anything other than a cold-hearted assassin, yet who knew him better than Mary Ward? She sat down beside her mother. “I never understood why he wasn’t executed like the rest of them when Charles II was restored to the throne.”

  Mary smiled weakly. “Thy father was a lawyer, and a good one. During the trial, he convinced the judges he’d sheltered certain prominent Royalists during the war. They commuted his sentence to life in prison.”

  This was another aspect of her father’s life she’d been unaware of. “Was it true?”

  Mary frowned. “Of course it was true. Harry Marten had his faults, but he wasn’t a liar.”

  All her life Sarah had striven to deny the simple truth that suddenly dawned. “You loved him.”

  Tears trickled down Mary’s cheek. “More than life,” she admitted.

  Guilt crept up Sarah’s spine. “I failed to offer even one word of condolence,” she whispered, putting her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

  Mary sobbed quietly, unassumingly. Sarah suspected it was the first time in many a year her mother had allowed emotion to get the better of her.

  When she finally quieted and fell back to sleep, Sarah undressed and climbed into bed, adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions. She’d long ago hardened her heart against her parents. Resentment had been the one constant underpinning her life. It had given her the strength to survive Blue Coat and Reginald’s brutality. Letting go was a terrifying prospect.