The Bride of Windermere

by Margo Maguire

  “What did you find on your hunt?” she finally asked as he climbed the staircase.

  “A trail—nothing more.”

  “The men in town want nothing better than for you to find Philip and his men,” she said.

  “We just might—with their help.”

  They entered their chamber, and Wolf sat down on the bed with Kit in his lap. He was reluctant to part with her so soon—they’d been separated all day.

  The room was already prepared for them. The bed was turned down, the candlesticks lit and a fire glowed in the fireplace. Wolf couldn’t take his eyes off Kit’s mouth, the desire to kiss her nearly unbearable. But one kiss would lead to another and another and his sweet wife was too badly bruised, too new to the physical aspects of loving...

  “I could have walked, you know,” Kit said quietly as she traced his lips with her fingers. She hadn’t realized how desperate she’d been for his touch.

  “Could you now?” He could hardly believe the sensuousness of her fingertips moving softly on his mouth, and his pulse quickened. Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?

  “Mmm,” she assented, moving her knuckles across his whisker-roughened chin. “But I’ve grown lazy at Windermere with so many here to serve me.” She pulled his head down so that his lips met hers but it was too gentle a kiss, and it left her unsatisfied. He was treating her like a piece of fragile glass—worried that she might break. And if he didn’t touch her soon, if he didn’t make love to her, she would surely crack into a thousand pieces.

  “Kit, I—”

  “Kiss me, Wolf,” she said. “Touch me...”

  “If I touch you, I won’t be able to stop,” he said, nuzzling her neck. God’s breath, her eyes were so beautiful; there was a lively, sensuous sparkle in those emerald depths.

  She slid her hands down his chest. “Let me undress you, husband,” she said with a thickness to her voice. She untied the laces that held his tunic together, then opened his shirt and pulled it down past his shoulders and off his arms. His wound was completely closed now, though it was still a fierce red scar across his upper chest. Kathryn kissed the spot and moved off his lap and over to Wolf’s side, somehow pushing him down on the bed. She urged his legs onto the mattress, then pulled off his boots as she knelt next to him.

  She removed his belt. Then Wolf stayed her hands, torn between a fierce desire to bury himself in her heat and an equally powerful inclination to hold her in his arms, carefully, gently all night. Surely it was necessary to take care with her bruised and battered body. Women were said to be fragile creatures.

  Undaunted, Kit sat back and unfastened her bodice at the shoulders and slid out of her gown. Clad only in the thin white chemise which revealed more than just a vague impression of her body within, and with loose shimmering curls of gold framing her face, Kit leaned over him and dropped a light kiss on his lips.

  “Shall I have Darby send you your supper?” she asked in a breathless voice as her lips caressed the scar on his forehead, then moved down to where it sliced the skin below his eye.

  “Kathryn,” he rasped, unable to answer her question.

  Her hands were braced on either side of his head, and he felt the gentle tease of her breasts grazing his chest.

  “Kit...” Her lips, her tender touch were driving him to distraction. He couldn’t make love to her now—her bruises were too raw, too tender. So he used every ounce of his control to keep his hands off her, aware that she was too inexperienced to understand her effect on him.

  “Perhaps you would like to sleep now,” Kit breathed, kissing his neck, certain now that she could seduce him to the point of forgetting about sleep. Her head descended tentatively; testing, tasting, relishing every groan and sigh she elicited from her husband.

  “I missed you so...” She could feel his heart slamming in his chest and it urged her on. She prayed he would soon respond.

  “Kit—”

  “I’ve been waiting for you...” she whispered. There was a fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead now. Moving farther down, she teased him unmercifully, using her lips and tongue, then her teeth on him.

  “I longed for you...” Waves of sensuality washed through her. “I...I want you so very badly.”

  His restraint was finally shattered.

  Chapter Nineteen

  No more signs of Philip’s presence were reported, nor did Wolf’s men come any closer to determining what had happened to Hugh. Furthermore, it was said that Baron Somers and two of his men were still in Windermere town, staying at Prudhomme’s, but there were no disturbances associated with his presence. Wolf didn’t care to flatter Kit’s stepfather with any further attention and just assumed the broken nose would suffice.

  Over the next few days, Kit and her husband pursued the different tasks they’d assigned themselves. Wolf made a thorough inspection of the castle and battlements, with an eye to determining what areas needed to be fortified. He met with town leaders to narrow down his choices for reeve and bailiff. He surveyed his demesne and looked over Philip’s accounts for himself. There was much to deal with those first few days, and Wolf hardly saw Kit until after dark. Only fleetingly and from a distance did he see Kit about the hall, wearing work clothes—an old gray gown with a dingy apron tied about her waist and her hair wrapped up in a cloth.

  He found her presence a bewitching, yet stabilizing force in his life—something his restless soul had missed.

  Workmen constructed scaffolding in order to make structural repairs in the hall as well as to clean the stained glass windows that were dull with years of grime and grease. Only the workmen from town worked on these high scaffolds, though Kit enlisted all the castle servants in the task of cleaning up the rest of Windermere.

  Never had she felt so useful—or so needed. The household servants looked to Kit for their orders and found her way a refreshing change from the imperious manner of Blanche Hanchaw, whose directions were often vague and downright silly. As far as Kit could tell, Windermere hadn’t undergone a decent cleaning in decades, and she wondered exactly what Philip had used his housekeeper for—if not for keeping house.

  The search for Philip continued, but after four days, there were still no signs of the former earl. Conjecture ran high that he had somehow escaped to the Scottish Highlands or possibly to Ireland, but no one could say for certain. However, it was not in Wolfs nature to trust that Philip no longer posed any danger. Scouts still scoured the countryside daily, hoping to find signs of Philip or some of his men.

  The days at Windermere Castle were full, and they passed quickly and productively for Kit. She missed Wolf when he was away, but knew full well that there was a tremendous amount for him to accomplish in a short time, and without the assistance of a steward. Besides, every evening he made up for his absences when they retired to their chambers, and all her jealous thoughts about Christine Wellesley fled through the window. Until the next time she saw them together.

  Kit and Emma took a break from their work in one of Windermere’s high turrets to enjoy a small midday meal. They stood leaning against the wall, looking down into the courtyard below. Most of the servants and workers were taking their meal as Kit and Emma were doing, and enjoying the lovely sunny afternoon.

  “Look, ’tis the duke, your husband,” Emma said, pointing.

  Kit watched as Wolf rode into the courtyard with Baron Wellesley on his right and Lady Christine to his left, smiling and batting her obscenely full eyelashes. Kit didn’t particularly care for the way Wolf leaned towards Christine, paying particular attention to whatever she was saying. He’d been more than courteous to the lady these last few evenings at supper as well, Kit recalled, even though Christine had naught but the barest civilities to exchange with her. And it rankled.

  “What is it, milady?”

  “Nothing, Emma,” she replied, turning away from the courtyard as Wolf helped Christine down from her mount.

  “You don’t like seeing your man with that red-haired one,
do you,” Emma asked.

  Kit just scowled.

  “She’s very beautiful,” Emma said, “though your husband has eyes only for you.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t...” Kit sighed.

  “Give him the test then, eh?” Emma said confidently. She’d been around the duke and his wife enough these last few days to know how he felt about his lady. “I’ll wager he wouldn’t give a hill o’ beans for that one down there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Get his attention. See what happens, milady,” she told Kit. “Lay your claim. It’s what I’d do.”

  Kit gave it a moment’s thought. Emma was right. Wolf was her husband, and she was not the least inclined to share him. She loved him.

  Kit pulled off the dusty cloth from her head and let it drop to the ground. Wolf and the others saw it, and both he and Lady Christine looked up to the turret that rose high above them.

  Wolf grinned. As he moved away from the baron and his daughter, he tossed off a couple of words, hardly aware of what he said. Kit was smiling down at him, her hair blowing in loose tangles in the breeze and Wolf felt something rare. A warm welcome. Welcome home.

  Christine Wellesley turned away angrily, unwilling to watch the Duke of Carlisle make a fool of himself over his little blond slip of a wife. Kathryn was so unsuitable, it was impossible to understand how Wolf could tolerate her. The woman actually wore coarse grays and browns and dirtied her hands right along with the servants. With a bit of luck, Kathryn Colston, Duchess of Carlisle, would succumb to some fever or other. After all, no noblewoman was meant to slave as she did...

  Wolf took the stone stairs two at a time and wound his way down the corridor to the turret where he’d seen his wife. He found the place easily, stepped outside and motioned quietly for Emma to leave them.

  “Emma, do you suppo—” Kit said, her shoulders sagging unhappily as she turned. “Wolf! You came!”

  Here was the imp he’d rescued from Somerton, he thought, smiling. Her lovely face was smudged with soot and her green eyes were direct and challenging as always. Delight was there, too. She was glad to see him, and Wolf’s heart soared. A few quick strides and he was at her side, taking her into his arms. He wondered in passing if she had any idea that through this marriage she had rescued him from a life of utter predictability and indifference.

  “What sort of temptress are you, that the mere sight of you draws me up here to taste you?” he asked, after a searing kiss.

  “Temptress?” she laughed, pulling away to look at him. “Me? Your eyes deceive you, my lord. I am not blessed with russet hair, nor sky blue eyes—”

  “Nay. Your golden curls and emerald eyes have ruined me for any other.”

  Kit shivered with pleasure upon hearing the words, but still, she was unsure of him. Lady Christine was everything Kit could not be.

  “But I fear you have been saddled with a dull wife. Bruised, unable to ride...slow-moving...a woman reduced to dropping stray rags from towers to gain your attention, sir.”

  “You have my complete attention now,” he said as he nuzzled Kit’s neck.

  “I love you, Wolf,” she breathed. “God knows how I love you.”

  She looked into his deep gray eyes and struggled with the silence she met. Then his hands began to move again, caressing her neck, her back, her hips.

  “I never thought to hear you say it,” Wolf said as his lips met the sensitive skin on her throat. “And there is nothing in this world I’d rather hear.” His voice was tender, and he pulled her closer. “Because I love you, too, Kit. I love you, sweetheart, as I’d never thought possible.”

  Emma brought a single candle into the small storage room where Kit was struggling to pull out rolls of old, dark, mildewed tapestries. They had worked their way some distance from the great hall which was the main work area, but Kit was determined to clear out all the refuse from two centuries past and start afresh. After all the tragedy in Wolf’s life, she felt compelled to clear out the dreary trappings of what had been. She would make his house bright and clean, efficient and cheerful, with none of the old ghosts of Windermere lingering to haunt him, as she knew they must.

  Kit was determined to make Windermere and herself his present and future. Together, she and Wolf would make a family—something neither of them had, but had always yearned for.

  “This is a funny sort of room, wouldn’t you say, milady?” The candle cast long, flickering shadows across the walls, which were made of rough-hewn wood and were completely unfinished.

  Kit frowned as she looked about. “Help me with this, will you, Emma?” she said. Emma placed the candle on an overturned wooden crate and reached up to help Kit pull out a huge, heavy roll. “Yes, it’s a strange place, all right. I wonder why none of this old rubbish was ever discarded. What’s the point of keep—What’s this?”

  “What?”

  “Look here,” Kit said as she picked up the candle and took it to the back wall. “It’s a hidden door, just like the one in the room I shared with Bridget last spring.”

  “Ah, yes, your cousin—the one that died...”

  “I wonder where it goes.”

  “We’d best get some of the men to look this over, Your Grace. Why don’t I—”

  “Nonsense. Come on,” Kit said. “Let’s try it. I assure you, nothing untoward happened the last time. In fact, it was only a passage leading to—Here. Come on and help. This door is heavy.”

  Kit pushed at the heavy timber door and was able to move it only by inches. Emma’s curiosity was aroused and the two women slipped into the passageway and peered into the darkness, trying to illuminate it with the single candle.

  “Hold the candle, Emma. I’ll just—Ouch!”

  “What is it!”

  “Damnation, it’s the door! Slammed on my ankle.”

  “Here...are you all right?” Emma asked, looking down at Kit’s injured ankle.

  “I’m fine. Just help me pull the bloody door back,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It smells rank in here. Cold and damp.”

  They pulled, but the door didn’t budge.

  “Look. It’s a staircase, milady,” Emma said after they’d tried their best to pull the stubborn door open.

  “Umm. But it leads down this time. I wonder what’s under this part of the castle.”

  “I don’t know. Mayhap we should try the door again.”

  “You’re right,” Kit replied, shuddering. “Let’s.”

  The door still didn’t move. They were stuck behind it, in the strange passage that Kit realized was only vaguely similar to the one she’d seen leading from her room to Agatha’s tower room. That other stairway had been made of stone and though the passage had been cool, it did not smell of rot the way this one did. And here, it led down, to somewhere under the castle itself. She shivered.

  They began to pound on the door, hopeful that someone passing by would hear and rescue them. Both women fought panic and attempted to stay calm, with their wits intact.

  At length, they gave up on pounding. Kit picked up the candle and held it high. “Maybe there’s a way out if we follow the stairs,” she said, trying to keep her voice from quaking.

  “No, Your Grace,” Emma protested urgently. “We must stay here. Your husband will surely find us—”

  “How? No one can hear us or else someone would have gotten this door opened by now,” Kit said as she eyed the narrow wooden steps. “We’ve got to try to find our way on our own.”

  “Do you suppose...?”

  “What, Emma?”

  “Er... Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, I was just thinking—wondering—if maybe someone up there...closed the door behind us,” Emma said. “Your husband didn’t exactly trust everybody...”

  “You mean someone might have locked us in?”

  Emma nodded.

  Kit chewed her lower lip and considered the possibility. There were certainly servants enough around to have done the deed...and if someone
locked the door, they would have closed up that storage room as well, just so it would take longer to discover, once she and Emma turned up missing.

  She took a tentative step, not trusting the wood to bear her weight. The wood hardly creaked when she stepped, so she continued on, with Emma right behind. The stairs continued for what had to be at least another two or three flights and when they finally ended, she and Emma stood in a small, crude chamber consisting of an earthen floor and walls.

  A slight movement in a corner startled the two, and they hugged each other closely.

  “Rat!”

  “Aye. There must be food down here.”

  “Milady, this doesn’t seem to be the way out, if you’ll only—”

  “No, look, Emma. Another passageway.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Emma muttered.

  “Come on,” Kit admonished good-naturedly. “Don’t be so fainthearted. I doubt anyone’s been down here in years.”

  They followed the narrow passage in hopes of finding another hidden door. Kit kept the candle raised as high as she dared, desperate to find a way out, but fearing that the faint wind currents would extinguish it.

  “I wonder if there’s more than one tunnel,” Kit said. “This breeze must come from somewhere... They proceeded cautiously and moved farther into the tunnel.

  “Ooh, the smell is getting worse.” Emma covered her mouth and nose with her hand.

  “It certainly is,” Kit replied with a grimace. “I wonder whatever—Why, this seems to be another chamber. Look, Emma, there’s a torch up here in the wall. Thank God. I’ll just light it—”

  Emma’s echoing scream broke the subterranean quiet. Kit whirled around, and in the full glare of the blazing torch, her shocked eyes lit on Lady Agatha, Countess of Windermere, sitting on the dirt floor, her wrists in manacles, chained to the wall.

  Biting back a scream of her own, Kit’s hand covered her mouth. Here was the source of the putrid odor. The countess had been dead for several weeks at least, and had Kit not recognized the old woman’s shapeless black gown and her twist of gray hair, she would not have known Agatha.