Bridget was breathing easily and regularly, soundly asleep. Kit eased herself back into the hot water and washed away the grit and grime of her journey, thinking of the two maids and their argument.
Kit wondered who Lady Clarisse was, and why Maggie’s words had upset Annie so. This was a strange place, this Windermere Castle. Kit thought it even stranger than Somerton Manor where Lord Somers spent his days in a drunken haze while his wife bedded every neighbor and visitor who passed through. At least at Somerton, a person knew her status—or lack of it.
Even Wolf had seemed to quickly gain an understanding of the situation at Somerton. His distaste for Kit’s stepfather was quite clear, and his disgust at Lady Edith’s infernal flirting was obvious.
It should have been easy to relax in the tub after her days in the saddle, yet thoughts of the taciturn Wolf plagued her: the way he could make her melt with just a glance of those intent gray eyes, then turn around and use words that made her feel like a child, chastised, castigated, effectively put into place.
She wondered what would happen if he discovered she was the one at the lake. She’d wager her boots he wouldn’t call her “Sprout” again.
How could he do this to her? Gerhart made her so confused, she could just kick something. He was a tyrant who treated her like a child and even had the gall to call her “Sprout.” She had no use for such a man as Wolf. She had Rupert.
Rupert, who was never overbearing. He was easygoing and fun and always smiling. He never frowned or scowled the way this Gerhart-Wolf did. Rupert had known her for so many years, he’d be satisfied with her, even though she lacked the sophistication of court. Besides, Kit had loved Rupert for years and as soon as she arrived in London, she would find him and marry him. This marriage was what she’d planned, what had kept her sane while she waited for him to come for her at Somerton. And nothing could change that.
It was some time later, as she sat in front of the fire drying her hair, that Bridget awoke. “How do you feel, old friend?” Kit asked.
“As though Edmond Grindcob’s huge cow Mathilda had sat on my chest.”
Kit laughed. “And well you should. You have a terrible hack and a wheeze as well. But we shall have you cured before long.”
“What did those old goats give me?”
“Nothing I wouldn’t have given you myself.”
“Good. Don’t let ‘em near me without ye,” she wheezed.
“I wouldn’t, ever.”
“Sure and I know ye wouldn’t, Kitty. Come sit by me.” Bridget patted the mattress and coughed. “I fear it will be some time afore I’m cured.”
Kit got up and sat on the edge of the bed. “Nonsense. You’ll be fine soon enough. And ready to go on to London.”
“Ye must dress for dinner with the earl.”
“I suppose,” Kit replied. She knew Bridget was going to insist she wear something presentable and Kit didn’t have the heart to argue with her now, while her cousin was so pale and weak.
“Wear the deep green velvet, Kit,” the nurse said, “along with the cream wimple. It does suit ye so.”
“What? And not the white?” The white gown with its delicately embroidered bliaut had been her mother’s, saved all these years by faithful Bridget. Kit was surprised her cousin hadn’t suggested wearing her finest tonight.
“Ye must save the white and gold until ye are presented to King Henry. Promise me.”
“All right, old mother,” Kit laughed as she began to dress herself, “I pledge to you that I will wear the white and gold only as you wish.”
“And behave yerself,” Bridget exhorted.
“You know me, my dear,” Kit said in an attempt at reassurance.
Bridget merely rolled her eyes.
Wolf remembered Philip Colston well. Though his cousin was in his late thirties, Philip had not changed much over the years. The same mustache was thicker now, and neatly trimmed, as was the small pointed brown beard which covered the end of his chin. There were hints of gray at his temples and a deep crease between his brows.
He still had a cruel twist about his lips.
It was difficult for Wolf to sit peacefully in the great hall over which his father had presided so long ago. He remembered every detail, down to the last dingy pane of stained glass in the windows and the banners, now tattered, hanging from the huge oaken beams of the ceiling. He could almost envision his brothers, John and Martin, coming in with the earl after a hunt or a trip into the village, Wolf being too young yet to accompany them.
Most vivid in his memory was Martin’s coffin being carried out of the main doors, and his mother’s weeping form supported by his father as they followed the body of their middle son to the family crypt. It was the last time he saw his mother with any expression.
Wolf painfully recalled the summons from Germany in the fall of 1401. Margrethe, Wolf’s mother, had been on an extended visit to her parents after Martin’s death. The messenger informed Bartholomew that his wife was lying ill at Bremen, perhaps even dying, and that the Earl was to come at once and bring her two remaining sons to her.
En route to Bremen, highwaymen overtook them, viciously attacking, butchering, hacking; leaving them all for dead.
Wolfs injuries were massive, and he survived only because of his brother’s last heroic act to protect him—an act that cost John his life—and the quick thinking of a page not much older than Wolf.
The page was a youthful Hugh Dryden who managed to patch Wolf sufficiently after the attack and get him to a nearby abbey. There, the monks healed his wounds, all but the terrible one that left a scar across his forehead and eye. Weeks later, the two boys were taken to Bremen and reunited with Margrethe and her parents. But Margrethe Gerhart Colston, already in despair due to Martin’s death, never recovered from her losses. She sat in her solar, day after day, staring out into the courtyard, straining towards death. The fact that one son remained to her made no difference at all.
His father and elder brothers now dead, Wolfram was the new Earl of Windermere, though unable to claim his title. His family name had been completely discredited in England, and it was up to Wolf now to find the proof he needed to restore his family’s honor. It had been necessary for Wolf to assume his grandfather’s name in order to return to England. Only Nicholas Becker and the page, Hugh Dryden, knew his true identity. Wolf had no intention of allowing his identity to be discovered until the evidence he needed was safe in hand. Only then would he reveal himself to Philip and personally see to it that justice was served.
Wolf knew that Philip inherited his treacherous nature from his father, Clarence, but there was a perverse aspect to the cousin’s nature that the uncle had lacked. Wolf felt his bile rise as he recalled Philip’s acts of cruelty—always perpetrated on someone smaller and weaker than himself, and always in secret. Only the children knew, and a few of the smaller servant girls, and none of them ever dared tell their elders. Yes, Wolf well knew of Philip’s penchant for inflicting pain. He still bore faint marks from a few painful encounters—until he’d learned to stay clear of the older boy.
Tables were set up, and servants began to bring the food into the great hall under the direction of Mistress Hanchaw. All of Wolfram’s men were assembled in the hall, as well as Philip’s retainers and many local noblemen with their ladies. Wolf recalled hearing of the recent death of Philip’s young wife. It seemed a tasteless blunder for Philip to be hosting such a festive gathering so soon after young Clarisse’s death.
Yet Wolf knew Philip’s true character. The man and his father had been responsible for butchering his family. Philip was capable of any abomination, and Wolf girded himself against the surge of anger that threatened to disintegrate his calm facade.
“It is interesting—and unusual—for King Henry to send emissaries far and wide throughout the land, is it not?” Philip asked.
“You mean to say you have not been visited before?” Nicholas countered, answering for Wolf. He sensed his cousin’s seething anger and g
ave Wolf the opportunity to master it.
Philip looked suspiciously at the two huge men sent by the king. There was something vaguely familiar about the silvery-gray eyes of the one called Gerhart. “Should I have been?”
“Why, of course,” Nicholas replied. “It is merely a courtesy extended by our sovereign. His majesty has long been abroad. How can he know how you fare without—”
At this juncture, Lady Kathryn was escorted into the hall by a gangly footman. Nicholas finished whatever it was he was saying to Lord Philip, but Wolf didn’t hear him. He was stunned by her unexpected transformation. Though her head and hair were completely covered by a soft linen headpiece trimmed in green, she was clothed now in women’s garb. A deep green velvet gown draped her feminine form from her neck to her toes. The gown was elegant in its simplicity, though even Wolf could see that there was some stitchery of considerable skill embroidered along the deep sleeves.
The gown itself revealed little of Kathryn’s form, though the grace of her movements was undeniable. Her hands and wrists were now clean, and he saw that they were small and delicately shaped. The damage done to her face was healing, and he was strangely pleased to note that she did not alter the directness of her emerald-green gaze to suit her position as a guest of the earl in the great hall of Windermere.
There was a vague awareness, tugging at the edges of Wolf’s consciousness, that Lady Kathryn had the bearing of a duchess.
Chapter Four
Wolf’s powers of speech returned when he was forced to introduce Kathryn to Philip. She greeted the earl, tipping her head almost regally. She then took Philip’s arm when it was offered, leaving Wolfram and Nicholas to follow them to the dais. Several guests were milling about, waiting for the earl in order to be seated and begin the meal.
Kit noticed that though Wolf wasn’t exactly frowning at her, his expression left something to be desired. He appeared completely astonished to see that she was what she said.
A woman.
Fully grown.
The word “Sprout” popped into her mind, and her chin rose a notch.
“You grace my hall most delightfully, my lady,” Philip said as he seated her on his right. Wolf and his German cousin sat some distance from the earl and Kathryn, but they were still able to hear most of their conversation. Wolf thought Lady Kathryn appeared somewhat small and vulnerable with her bruised eye and the healing gash on her lip. His muscles clenched reflexively, knowing that she was exactly the kind of victim Philip relished.
“It has been many months since Windermere has been blessed with the charms of one so lovely,” Wolf heard Philip say to Kathryn.
“Our condolences on the loss of your lady,” one of the barons said.
“Oh, my,” Kit’s eyebrows came together in concern for the earl. “Your wife has recently...died?”
“Yes, Clarisse died last November, poor girl,” Philip muttered.
The name “Clarisse” shot through her like an arrow. What was it Maggie had said about her?
Wolf didn’t detect a bit of emotion from his cousin when he spoke of his dead wife. In fact, Philip seemed altogether too enthralled by Lady Kathryn, and Wolf didn’t care much for it. Any normal man would have been able to produce at least some outward sign of grief for the young wife who’d been dead a mere six months. Instead, Philip hung on Kathryn’s every word, and hadn’t yet let go of her hand.
“How dreadful for you, my lord,” Kathryn said, recovering herself. “Was it sudden?”
The trenchers were finally brought to table as well as trays of meat and fowl. Everyone started to eat, forcing Philip to stop touching Lady Kathryn. Wolf noticed the look of concern in Kathryn’s eyes over the bereavement of the earl. He knew she couldn’t possibly understand Philip’s true character on first meeting, but Wolf found her sympathy for Philip irritating, regardless.
“No,” Philip answered Kit. “My wife had been ill for some months... A stomach malady.” He waved the meaty rib of beef he was holding as if to dismiss the topic. Kit thought the earl’s attitude too callous. She knew little of the world beyond Somerton, but she felt certain that some expression of sorrow would have been appropriate. There was no doubt in her mind that the Earl of Windermere was a cold man, and his strangeness caused a slight furrowing of her brow. She could not know that her expression would be interpreted as sympathetic rather than simply puzzled.
Philip paid almost exclusive attention to Lady Kathryn and that fact was remarked upon by many of the guests at the tables nearby. Lady Kathryn’s bruised eye was duly noted, though it was said she’d suffered some mishap prior to setting out from her home in Northumberland. No one knew quite why she was traveling to London or exactly what her relationship was with King Henry, though speculation was rife that the king had made her his ward and she was under his protection. They also said he would likely choose a husband for her.
Wolf said nothing to quell any of the rumors regarding Kathryn, since he himself had no idea why she’d been summoned to court. Besides, Wolf decided the rumors and theories would be to her benefit. He suspected the less anyone knew for certain about her—especially Philip—the better.
Kit was exhausted when Philip finally walked her to her chambers. She wanted nothing more than for the clinging, lecherous nobleman to release her arm and let her enter her room. He had dogged her all evening and now, his face was close to hers and his breath reeked of old ale.
Because she was a guest in his home and since she’d promised Bridget to behave, Kit did not trounce on his foot or jab her knee into his groin when he slid a wayward arm around her waist and flattened his sweaty hand across her buttock. “Such a sweet little morsel...” he muttered, even though Kit tried to move away.
“My lord, release me. Now.”
“You please me, Kathryn,” Philip drawled. “Young, tempting. What ruse must I use to lure you—”
Kit slapped his hand away and was considering doing worse harm when Sir Gerhart suddenly appeared in the corridor, carrying one candle and staggering slightly, singing a bawdy little tune under his breath. He came toward them, lost his balance and knocked into the earl’s shoulder. Kit was surprised by his awkwardness, for though he was a large man, she’d noticed that he always moved with agility and purpose.
“So sorry, m’lord,” Gerhart slurred. “Wunnerful wine, marveloush party.”
“Back off, ungainly oaf!”
“Please, my lord,” Kit stepped between the two men before the earl was able to draw his dagger. It wouldn’t do to have the two fighting in the gallery outside her room. Nearly in a panic and hardly able to think what she should do next to appease the earl’s unreasonable temper, Kit spoke in her best conciliatory tone. “My escort has...has...merely overindulged in your good wine...and...your hospitality. Allow me to help him to his chambers... er... so he does not further embarrass our party.”
She took the candle from Gerhart and pulled at his arm, moving him away from the earl. “Come along, sir knight,” she said, then turned to Philip. “Good night, my lord.” With that, she put her arm around Gerhart’s waist to support his drunken frame and led him down the hall. A quick glance behind her verified, to her immense relief, that Philip was not following. “Pompous ass...” she muttered.
Wolf was really too large for her to support much longer. His chamber would have to be nearby or there would be no choice but to let him crash to the floor right there in the gallery. “Which is the door to your room, Gerhart?”
“This one... No, p’rhaps...down here a bit...” He was leaning too heavily on her. They were both going to fall. “You smell like roses again, Sprout,” he said, weaving slightly. Kit was surprised he’d noticed. She always bathed with
rose-scented soap, but thought it was too subtle to be noticed by anyone but herself.
“Here. This is it.” He staggered into a door which swung into the room under his weight. By some miracle, neither one of them fell. Kit now found herself with Gerhart’s arm around her rather than h
er arm around his waist where she distinctly remembered having placed it. In his drunken state, he had somehow succeeded in keeping her from falling. He was holding her quite closely now, and Kit’s breath quickened. His head moved down, bringing his lips precariously close to hers, nearly touching, and Kit had no control over her body’s traitorous response to him. She knew it was insane, but she yearned for the touch of his lips again, wanted to feel—
A drop of hot wax from the candle hit her hand, and Kit jumped. She came to her senses and pulled away from him at once.
“Can you manage now, or should I call for someone to help?” she asked, somewhat breathlessly.
“Why would I need help?” he asked, all traces of drunken speech remarkably absent.
“Why would...? You’re not drunk at all, are you?” she asked, seeing the amusement in his eyes and realizing that he had been toying with her.
“Of course not, Sprout. I never drink too much,” he said, puzzled by his own behavior. He had never feigned drunkenness before, nor any other condition. Wolf told himself that he’d felt compelled to follow when Philip had taken Kit from the hall only because it was his sworn duty to protect her. And after witnessing his cousin’s lecherous looks at supper, he didn’t trust that the lady would be safe with him alone in the dark gallery.
“Why, you... you... deceitful lout!” Kit cried. “Roses indeed!” She looked for something to throw at him, but seeing nothing readily at hand, Kit whirled about and tore out of his chamber, leaving him in darkness.
When she reached her room, Kit closed the door more gently than she would have liked, in deference to Bridget, who was sleeping. Her blood was pounding in her ears. Kit wasn’t sure if her upset was from anger, annoyance or fear of what might have happened if she’d let Wolf kiss her. Would he have recognized her as the woman at the lake from one kiss?
Standing there in the gloom, her distress simmered, but her worried lips gave way to a slow smile as she thought of Wolf feigning inebriation. The act had been contrived entirely for her benefit. If not for Wolfs interference in the corridor, Kit would either have had to submit to the earl or do something equally embarrassing. Neither option was acceptable, and Wolf had saved her from having to make the choice. She grinned. His method of rescue had been perfect Perhaps he wasn’t totally lacking a sense of humor.
The Bride of Windermere Page 6