She was a dove caught in a room full of peacocks and it suited her well indeed.
Jamie rejected the assessment, reminding himself that Lady Montmercy had seemed no less innocent or fragile and she was now confined in the Tower. Glancing beyond Lady Purfoy, he waited for the remainder of her party to appear. There was no one.
In confusion, he looked back at the lady. What sort of gentlewoman brought no one of her own rank to witness the day's event? Then again, what sort of gentlewoman came into the queen’s presence bare-handed and dressed as she had?
When she stopped beside him on the altar step Jamie was surprised to find her head barely reached past his shoulder. The corner of his mouth lifted. Of course there'd been little time to gauge her height prior to knocking her down.
He breathed and his lungs again filled with her perfume. She raised her head to look up at him. The delicate bend of her brows was marred by worry.
Clearing his throat, the chaplain came to stand before them. “If you will join hands,” he commanded.
Jamie glanced at her hands, remembering the feel of her fingers in his yesterday. Today, she wore gloves: a fine kidskin dyed the same gray as her sleeves. He extended his hands.
The frown on her brow deepening, she laid her fingers into his. Jamie waited. Unlike yesterday, no untoward wave of tenderness followed, no burning need to hold her close. He must have grinned in his relief, for the corners of the lady's mouth trembled upward into what was timid mimicry of a smile.
“Gather near, you who witness,” the chaplain called out to the empty chapel. “Standing before you is Master James Wyatt. Is there any among you who have reason to believe he is not the acknowledged proxy for Squire Nicholas Hollier?”
Only echoes responded to his question.
“Is there any among you who have reason to object to the betrothal between Lady Arabella Purfoy and Squire Nicholas Hollier?”
Again, only echoes answered.
“Aye then,” the chaplain said with a brisk nod. “Now, repeat after me, Master Wyatt: 'I, Squire Nicholas Hollier, vow that I shall take thee, Arabella Purfoy-'“
As Master Wyatt repeated the traditional words Belle stared up into his face. Oh, but he was a handsome man. Her gaze traced the fine line of his nose and the sharp arch of his brows over his blue eyes. But it wasn’t his fine features that had her heart hammering today.
Belle could hardly believe he hadn’t even frowned at her when she joined him at the step. Instead, he’d almost smiled when she’d expected him to glare. After all, he’d been very angry with her yesterday. If only there was some way to tell him how much she appreciated this. He couldn’t know how the fear of being glowered at throughout an already difficult ceremony had plagued her. It had even infested her dreams until she’d awakened feeling bruised and beaten.
As Master Wyatt finished his part of the vows, Belle looked to the minister. The churchman offered her a smile. She returned it, filling her expression with all the gratitude she could manage. Here was another kind man. He hadn't even asked why she wanted to hide from Sir Edward, only offered her sanctuary in the queen's pew-box.
“Repeat after me, Lady Purfoy,” the churchman said.
“I, Arabella Purfoy, shall take thee, Squire Nicholas Hollier, as my wedded husband, to have and to hold,” Belle echoed, looking up at Master Wyatt as she spoke. He was watching her, a slight frown touching his fine brow.
“'At board and at bed’,” the chaplain prompted.
“At board and at bed,” Belle repeated.
With the word bed something flared in the depths of Master Wyatt’s cool eyes. Instantly and unexpectedly, the image of him atop her, his mouth touching hers, his hands caressing and stroking, sailed through Belle. She started at so sinful a thought, a blush burning her cheeks. God have mercy on her! This wasn’t her husband, this was his proxy, a mere prop taking the squire's place until she could reach Graceton Castle and wed the man himself.
Lowering her head, she stared at the center of his doublet.
“For fairer and fouler,” she repeated softly. “For better, for worse, in sickness and in health, until death us depart, and thereto shall I plight thee my troth.”
As she finished she breathed out a long, slow stream of air. It was done. She and Squire Hollier were betrothed. From this moment forward, any inappropriate images she entertained that included her new husband's steward were sins of thought, which weighed no less against her soul than sins of deed.
Master Wyatt released her hands and stepped back. Opening her eyes, Belle looked at him. He stood in a shaft of sunlight, the brightness at his back shadowing his face even while it outlined the breadth of his shoulders and traced the fine line of his long legs.
Slow and languid, a wave of desire rolled over her. Belle turned her gaze to her toes. It’d be best if they arrived at Squire Hollier's home sooner rather than later. As much as Belle disliked thinking this of herself she feared there’d be much sinning in her thoughts between here and there.
Thank heavens there was nary a chance of sinful thought becoming adulterous deed. Men as handsome as Master Wyatt had never been and would never be interested in a woman as plain as she.
Spoons scraped on wooden trenchers while folk sipped ale from their cups. A breeze, born of the sun's setting, blew through the inn's slatted shutters, bringing both flies from the stables and blessed coolness to the stuffy room. Shadows crept into the chamber, throwing their graying cloaks over those traveling to Graceton.
Jamie pushed away his trencher. The stew was bland, and he, too edgy to eat. Across the table, Tom looked up from his empty trencher. “Are you finished, Master James?”
“Aye,” Jamie said, shoving his dish toward his servant. “Take it with my blessings.”
“My thanks,” his man replied, pulling the wooden platter closer to bend his head over it.
Bracing his shoulders against the stones of the inn’s barren hearth behind him, Jamie stretched out his legs beneath the table. Using the dimness to disguise his interest, he studied his traveling companions. Sir Edward and his royal escorts sat near the midpoint of the inn's second table. The knight’s party had diminished to two of the queen's guard and his manservant.
Jamie’s lip curled. As hard as it was to conceive, the servant was an even greater popinjay than his master. At least Sir Edward had sense enough to trade his bright feathers for attire similar to what Jamie wore, a leather jerkin atop a plain doublet and boots gartered above his knees to protect his hose. The knight’s servant affected a red riding costume, complete with ribbons and a day’s worth of road dust.
Jamie's gaze slipped to Sir Edward. The look on the man’s face was better suited to a lost lad than one of Elizabeth's courtiers. A tiny flame of satisfaction woke. Twice today, the knight had tried to ride near Lady Purfoy's wagon only to be rebuffed each time. It seemed he was having difficulties convincing Nick’s new wife to aid him in any way.
Jamie’s gaze moved to the end of his own table where the lady and her party sat. That they’d chosen the spot closest to the exit made him wonder if they feared needing to make a swift escape.
Behind him, the kitchen door creaked as it opened. Heralded by the hiss and spit of burning oil, the landlord’s youngest daughter carried two torches into the chamber. Caught in a circle of illumination, the child’s fine, fair hair glowed where it straggled out from beneath her dirty coif. Trailing writhing tendrils of black smoke behind her, she marched halfway down the room's long wall and wrestled one torch handle into its basket. Light flowed out over the empty expanse of table between Jamie's and Lady Purfoy's parties. The glowering shadows shattered, bits of darkness flying upward to cling like cobwebs between the thick ceiling beams.
Her second torch went into a sconce near the door. Lady Purfoy’s servants appeared out of the dimness. The pretty governess's hair gleamed ebony beneath her spotless coif. In contrast, there was Lady Purfoy's maid. Beneath her stained cap the big woman's thin brown hair was plastered to h
er skin by sweat. Not even the torch's golden light could soften the servant's coarse features. This was hardly the sort of personal servant one expected for a woman as delicate and timid as Lady Purfoy seemed.
His gaze shifted to the only man in the lady's party. Seated across from the governess, torchlight gave the footman's hair a reddish-blond hue beneath his dark cap. A day’s exposure to the sun had left its brand upon the fair man's face.
What sort of gentlewoman traveled across England’s breadth with but a single guard at her side? Lifting his chin, he peered through the dimness, looking for either the lady or her daughter at the darkened end of the table. Her servants were clutched too closely around her to permit him a glimpse.
His eyes narrowed. No woman, especially one who had sprung from Lady Montmercy’s loins, could be as naive as Arabella Purfoy portrayed herself to be. Nay, as far as Jamie was concerned, Lady Purfoy had to be a native schemer by virtue of her parentage alone and that made everything she did suspect in his eyes.
It was with thoughts of yesterday's ceremony filling him that Jamie relaxed back against the fireplace. How strange it’d been, speaking such intimate vows to a woman meant for another man. Indeed, while the lady said her piece, Jamie had felt almost as if he were standing outside himself, as if some other man were inhabiting his body. In that curious state, images had raced through his mind, some hopelessly lewd, others startlingly homely. Of them all the strongest had been a sudden poignant longing for a family of his own.
Jamie freed a scornful breath. Marriage was something he'd never craved, and not just because he was a younger son with only the stipend Nick paid him to recommend him. Nay, it was a lesson learned well and true at his father’s knee. Wives brought naught but pain and trouble with them, only to shatter hearts and homes when they left.
The kitchen door again opened, this time admitting the landlord’s elder lass. Her arms were filled with empty trenchers. There was a cheery bounce to the girl’s step as she started down the table’s length. At her heels came her mother, hefting a good-sized pot.
The scent of steaming stew made Tom's head lift. “Is there more, mistress?” he asked, turning on his bench as the landlord's wife passed him.
“There may be,” the woman called over her shoulder to him, then jerked her head toward Lady Purfoy's party. “I'll know after I feed them.”
The lady and her servants were the last to dine, having lingered in the courtyard for a goodly time before entering the inn. Wondering what kept them since he’d paid the innkeeper to care for their wagon and the dray horses, Jamie watched as they were served, then waited for the party to bow their heads in prayer. Instead, they simply began to eat without even the pretense of good Protestant holiness.
Across the room a bench squealed in protest. Sir Edward crossed toward the lady’s party. Silence fell as the young knight stopped beside them.
“My lady,” Sir Edward said, “will you not give thanks to God before you dine?”
Jamie’s brows rose. Never would he have guessed the arrogant bitch’s son capable of so gentle a manner.
It was Lady Purfoy's maidservant who answered. “We did our duty to our heavenly Father before we entered,” she said, her voice as coarse as her face.
So it’d been prayer that kept them in the courtyard. A smile tugged at Jamie's mouth. Witnessing yet another of Sir Edward's blunders was almost compensation for having to travel in his company.
Pride seemed to drain from the young man. He humbly inclined his head. “As a man of faith I’d happily join you in your prayers if you’d have me,” he said, sounding almost as if he were apologizing for pressing his attentions upon the lady.
There was no response from either the lady or her maid. Sir Edward's shoulders lowered just a mite then he turned and strode out the inn’s door, as if exiting had always been his intent. When the door closed the governess leaned across the table.
“My lady, should we not include him?” she asked, her voice low as she spoke to her mistress. “If he is a faithful man, it would only be Christian of us.”
John, the younger of Jamie’s two footmen, had been content to eat, sip his ale and stare at the tabletop. Now, he spat over his shoulder into the rushes. “Heretics, all of them, just like Anne Bullen's bastard who dares sit herself on England's throne,” he snarled, his voice not quite held to a whisper.
Bracing his arms upon the table, the footman twisted his face into a scowl as he glanced at his traveling companions. “I tell you we'll not have any of them at Graceton. See if we don’t drive them away before month's end,” he threatened, speaking for Nick's household, which was as insular as its squire.
John's words brought Jamie upright on his bench. For himself, he didn’t care if all the Catholics in the world slaughtered all the Protestants, or vice versa; he’d long ago turned his back on either religion, believing nothing save that whatever god there was owned a wide cruel streak.
But his loyalty was a different matter, given in its entirety to Nick. Threats and this sort of prejudice spewed so openly by Graceton's servants would hardly win their squire Elizabeth’s love, especially when Sir Edward longed to hear even a hint of insult aimed in the direction of his queen.
Laying his hand on John’s shoulder, Jamie glanced at Tom and Watt, the other footman, then leaned forward so what he said remained private among them. “Have you already forgotten the words of betrothal I spoke yesterday? Their utterance made Lady Purfoy the squire's wife. Strike at her now and you strike at Squire Nicholas. Are you man enough to attack your master?”
John blanched. Not only was such a thing disloyal, it guaranteed his dismissal if not his death. “Pardon, Master Steward,” he whispered. “I spoke without thinking.”
“No harm's done,” Jamie assured him with a smile. “Can I count on you to explain this to the others at Graceton, just as I have explained it to you?”
All three men nodded, but Jamie knew the cause was hopeless. Even if they traveled a year, instead of the little more than a week it would take the lady’s wagon to reach Graceton, he doubted there’d be time enough to devise a way to ease her party into the household's arms without a battle.
Pondering that sour puzzle, he again leaned back on his bench and stretched out his legs. One boot made contact with something soft. Whatever it was brushed over the top of his foot and was gone.
Startled, he yanked back his leg, his bench hopping against his sudden movement. Tom and the two footmen stared at him in surprise.
“A rat,” he said, drawing his dagger. Since one less rat in the public room meant one less rodent to plague them in their sleep, he signaled the others to do the same. All four of them leaned down to peer beneath the table.
Lady Purfoy's daughter peeked back at them. The child sat on her knees on the inn's hard earthen floor, her bare hands in the dirty rushes that covered it. A day's travel had pulled thick golden curls from her short braid, leaving them bouncing about her face in winsome disarray. She smiled at them.
Tom grinned back at her. “Why, Master James, this looks to be the prettiest little rat I’ve ever seen.”
“I'm not a rat,” the girl replied, wrinkling her nose at such foolishness. “I'm Mistress Lucretia Purfoy.”
“Well now, Mistress Purfoy,” said Watt, who had two babes of his own, “I think your lady mother wouldn't be much pleased to see you sitting where you are. Come then.”
Reaching beneath the table, he pulled the child out and set her on her feet. Like every other female in Lady Purfoy’s party, Mistress Lucretia wore a plain brown bodice over a simple skirt of matching fabric. Whatever else, her lady mother was a sensible woman when it came to travel, preferring comfort over fashion. There was no farthingale beneath the child's petticoats or ruff around her neck. Unlike her elders, the girl sported a white apron atop her skirt. Given the dark streaks staining that garment, it was a necessary affectation.
Not that it stopped her from rubbing her dirty hands on her skirt. The lass turned her
smile on Jamie. He offered her only the quick lift of his brows in return then shot a look to the table's end. Her governess was already on her feet. The woman shot out of the room for the darkened courtyard.
“Mistress Lucy!” Her shout was cut off by the slam of the door behind her.
“For shame,” Jamie scolded the lass. “Your keeper has had to leave her meal to search for you. I think you’d best go back where you belong, ready to apologize for your misbehavior.”
Turning the child, he gave her a little push to send her on her way. Instead, she whirled back on him, her lower lip edging out. Pique darkened her blue eyes.
“I don’t want to go back,” she cried with a stamp of her foot. “I want to ride your horse.”
“Ride my horse?” Jamie repeated in surprise. His eyes wide, he glanced at his servants in bemusement. Tom and the footmen were laughing. He looked back at the child. “Why ever would you want to do such a thing? And why my horse and not his?” he asked, pointing to Tom.
Mistress Lucy's mouth narrowed as she crossed her arms in perfect mimicry of an impatient woman four times her age. “Because you are my stepfather.”
Shock drove Jamie back on his bench. “I most certainly am not!”
Even as the words flew from his lips, yesterday's strange longing for home and family returned. An image formed in his mind, a comfortable scene, a man, a woman and a child seated at a table for a meal.
“Lucy!” Lady Purfoy materialized next to Jamie.
The lady looked sweet indeed with only a simple white coif upon her head. At some point during the day, the wagon's canopy must have been rolled back, for there was a new pink in her cheeks. Lifting her daughter, she balanced the lass on one hip then frowned at her child.
“Shame on you, sweetling,” she chided the girl. “You gave us all a fright. Why, Brigit even went to look for you in the courtyard.”
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