by Olga Daniels
“Meg.” He breathed her name reverently.
With long, urgent strides he crossed the room and would have taken her into his arms, but she held her hands out to prevent him. “Please don’t touch me.”
He stood stock-still. Gently, with understanding, he asked, “How are you, my dear one?”
“Bruised and sore.”
Even as Meg warned him away, delight at the sight of him engulfed her. She had tried to resign herself to the sadness of never seeing him again, but had missed him every minute. Their relationship was so tenuous, so fragile, yet to her more powerful than any emotion she had ever experienced. No other man would ever awaken such strong feelings in her, of that she was convinced. It was madness when there was so much she doubted about Richard. Yet in that moment of meeting, after she had expected to die, or to be taken inexorably back to London and her evil relative, she moved towards him.
It was her body, not her mind, that was in control. She lifted her face for his kiss. His lips closed over hers, gently but possessively, awakening excited pulses which quivered from her head to her feet. Love enveloped her. Richard’s arms encircled her, but gently, so gently. He touched her with care, his hands exploring, always watching her reaction.
“I’m so afraid of hurting you, my dearest,” he whispered.
“The pain seems less when you kiss me,” she murmured.
“Then I shall keep kissing you until you are fully restored,” he volunteered.
With the utmost tenderness he kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose, then turned his attention to her lips. He drew her closer into his arms—and pain shot through her ribs. He loosened his hold at once.
“I’m hurting you.”
She didn’t want him to stop. “It’s all right. It will go away. Kiss me again.”
He did so willingly, a long, lingering kiss that, despite her bruises, throbbed deliciously through her. It brought a rush of desire, transporting her from the everyday world. A few moments previously she had looked out of the window and, seeing Sarah with Alan, had felt envious. Now the sun was shining in through the glass at her side, Richard kissed her again and again, and her world was alight with joy.
But she was still far from well and the aches and pains returned. Richard noticed. “You should be resting,” he said solicitously. “Shall I carry you?”
“No,” she gasped. “Just let me take your arm—”
As if she had been waiting for just this moment Sarah knocked on the door. “The physician said you’d to rest, my lady,” she said sternly.
He stayed with Meg until she fell asleep. His eyes never left her face and he cursed the day he had been forced by Thurton to swear that oath on the Bible. He would keep it. His honour demanded no less. But he knew that vow would try him harder than any other thing in his life.
The physician’s prognosis proved to be correct. Meg’s recovery took its natural course; she was young and healthy and within a few days was able to walk unaided. Despite her disability they were happy days, spent mostly in Richard’s company—and indeed, for many hours, in his arms.
Ever solicitous, considerate, clearly he was happy to be with her. The feeling that throbbed between them was real and strong; it had nothing to do with courtly love. To her it seemed that they were made for each other. Every day she expected him to speak of marriage, but though they talked a great deal that was never mentioned.
He kissed her, caressed her and enfolded her in loving embraces until she almost swooned in his arms. She yearned to be his entirely, and she could tell that his arousal matched hers, but he never actually made love to her. Always, just when she wanted more than anything in the world to be seduced by him, to give herself to him entirely, he drew back. He would pull away from their embrace, tear himself from her arms, murmuring of some important engagement which he had to attend.
Why was it not as frustrating for him as it was for her? She had no doubt that their desire was mutual, even if for him it was not true love. In the past when he had spoken of courtly love he had warned her that a gentleman would carry the affair as far as the lady was willing. Sometimes she wondered if there was some other lady to whom he was attached or even betrothed. She had seen him talking teasingly to some who had been ladies-in-waiting to Queen Jane. Perhaps, although he dallied with her, it meant nothing to him, and there was another he wished to marry.
She sighed. She could not speak of it. That would have been far too bold for a lady brought up as she had been. Sometimes she regretted her early years in the nunnery, which had imprinted such deeply held moral restrictions upon her. It made her ashamed of the intensity of her feelings. Her only recourse was to hide those emotions that could so easily consume her. She fought against the wild wantonness that Richard caused, which flared up in her and threatened to engulf her whole being. If he truly loved her, surely he would behave more warmly towards her.
Doubts festered just below the surface of her mind, as they had done ever since their first encounter. She would have avoided all contact with him, but that was not within her power. Her love for him was too great, the pleasure of being with him so sweet. Yet, as she recovered from her injuries, questions that had been at the back of her mind thrust themselves forward.
“Sarah, where is Alan? I saw you with him the first morning we were here. But that’s several days ago and I haven’t yet had an opportunity to thank him for his part in our rescue.”
“He’s gone to London, my lady.”
“To London? Why should he wish to go there?”
“Sir Richard sent him on a mission.”
“What sort of mission?” Meg asked suspiciously.
“That’s all I know, my lady. He wouldn’t tell me anything more.”
“I see,” Meg said, though in truth she was no wiser than before and, in fact, was more troubled.
For the first few days she had taken all meals in her chamber; now she declared herself sufficiently fit to join the others in the Great Hall. It was a good-sized room, though not so lofty or spacious as that at Bixholm. Fewer people sat at the trestles and it was altogether a much more subdued affair than that over which Thurton presided. A small group of musicians in the gallery livened the evening with a selection of popular melodies.
She was a little surprised to find Richard in the seat of honour at the top table, but, because of that, it seemed natural for her to be placed upon his right. A priest intoned grace, after which the first courses were served. Roast mutton with a sharp mint sauce, pigeon pie, wheat and rye bread and cheese. It was all well cooked and tasty.
“Eat well, my dear.” Richard smiled at her. “For it will help you to regain your strength.”
She nodded, accepting another slice of the pie. “It is delicious,” she said. “The kitchen is obviously very well ordered. But I still do not know to whom this castle belongs.”
“Ownership is a moot point,” he replied. “It is my belief that it is mine. But there are others who dispute that.”
“Then where are they, these ‘others’?”
“In London, to the best of my knowledge.”
“Suppose they come here—will they not object to our presence?”
“I don’t expect them,” he said with a confident shrug. “Leet is seldom occupied; you’ve seen how neglected it is. The Captain of the Guard believes, as I do, that I am the rightful owner. He is loyal to me. I’ve instructed him what action to take in the event of any hostile approach.”
“You think there will be trouble?”
“It’s just a precaution. Nothing for you to worry about.” Then, changing the subject, he said, “It is delightful to see you here at table. Are you really feeling better?”
“Much better, thank you, and it is pleasant to be here.” She ate in silence for a short time, trying to quell her curiosity, but found it impossible.
“How was it that Leet was taken from you?” she asked.
“It’s a not uncommon story. Both my parents died of the sweating sickness
when I was but eight years old. My little sister died too. I was fortunate to be spared.”
“Oh, how sad!” Meg’s heart was touched, her sympathy sincere and immediate. She could visualise all too vividly the grief of that great loss at such an early age.
“It was. I don’t like to think back on it. But it’s a long time ago. I was sent to live in the house of another nobleman, a friend of my father’s. It had already been planned that I should be brought up there, as is customary.”
“What happened to Leet?”
“It fell to a roaming band of brigands who were rampaging around the country. They were lawless times. I was too young to defend my rights and the gentleman in whose house I lived had no spare men to send here. Had he done so, he might have lost his own estates. Those brigands were well armed. Mercenaries, under the command of some of the greatest landowners. Leet was easy prey to them.”
“As my mama was driven out of Bixholm,” she said.
“Aye. A similar dastardly act,” he agreed. “I’ve lodged my claim with lawyers in London, but you know what they say: possession is nine-tenths of the law. I have papers to prove my ownership, but without financial backing it isn’t easy.”
“I know,” she said, mindful that her mother had had to accept the loss of Bixholm and that it would never be hers. “Life has not treated you well.”
He shrugged. “There are others who have fared worse. I’ve had to fend for myself from boyhood, but I’ve managed. My foster-parents were good to me.”
“Do they live near here?”
“Unfortunately they have both died, and their estates are in the North of England. They have sons who have taken over. As soon as I grew up I felt I must make my own living. I rode south and hired out my services to gentlemen and ladies who were in need of protection.”
“Was that how you came to be with my uncle?”
“That was one of the reasons,” he said. “But enough about me. Let us just be grateful that we were close to Leet when you were so badly injured.”
Meg wished he did not always change the conversation, but felt she had quizzed him long enough that evening.
Dessert was served. Pastries, figs and wild strawberries and cream. She declined Richard’s suggestion that they should dance. She did not feel quite fit enough for that, especially if he had the lavolta in mind.
As it was a warm evening they walked in the gardens for a short time. Richard placed an arm around her waist and she leaned her head upon his shoulder, as affectionately as any couple could wish—except that they were not officially so. The night was still; the birds had finished their frantic feeding and settled for the night. Only an owl hooted in the distance. Meg stood still, listening. Was it an owl? She heard it again and was satisfied. Then something else caught her attention. A man was standing beneath some trees. Something about him was familiar.
“Richard—someone is watching us,” she said.
“I do not care if the whole world is watching,” he said, and kissed her.
His attitude was so untroubled she felt foolish for being concerned about it, but, disturbed by the thought that they were being spied upon, she turned her head away from him.
“It will only be one of the servants,” he said. “Where is he?”
“Over there—” She pointed. She could see nothing.
Richard walked to where she pointed. “Nobody here,” he said.
She shivered, suddenly feeling cold.
Richard noticed. “I’d better take you in,” he said.
He escorted her to her chamber, solicitous of her well-being. Sarah was waiting to assist her to prepare for bed. She was almost drifting off to sleep when that figure sprang into her mind again.
It had been Gervase Gisbon! She shook her head in disbelief. It must have been a trick of the light, a memory of that previous night in the garden in London. How foolish of her even to think of it! It was impossible—and yet she was unable to shake her mind free of the thought.
Fear, premonitions of disaster and her bruises, painful if she turned the wrong way in bed, had developed in Meg the habit of waking early. So it was that two days later, shortly after dawn, with sunlight streaming through the window, she slipped quietly out of bed. She had left the casement open and padded softly across the room, careful not to disturb Sarah, who was sleeping on the truckle bed at the foot of her big four-poster.
In the days she had been at Leet Castle she had come to love the view. Below was the formal garden which, though neglected, was a haven of wildlife. Birds were seeking tasty morsels for their young, flitting with filled beaks to nests in bushes and trees all around. Among the weeds she had been pleased to discover some of the herbs with which she was familiar, and she planned to find a lad to assist her to clear the ground around them.
Peace dominated the land. Meg stretched, yawned—then stood, transfixed, her attention caught by movements just beyond the perimeter of the castle. A group of horsemen were approaching fast. She was surprised to see that, even at this early hour, the drawbridge had been lowered. Standing close by was Gervase Gisbon.
A guard stepped forward as if he intended to challenge the visitors. She gasped as Gisbon swung a heavy cudgel and felled the man with a single mighty blow. He dropped to the ground, where he lay silent and stunned. There was no other opposition as the horsemen cantered into the castle forecourt.
With horror Meg recognised the leader of the company. It was Thurton! He reined in his horse and raised one triumphantly aggressive arm. She heard his words clearly.
“I am the rightful owner of Leet. Any man who challenges my right to be here will be severely dealt with.”
Gisbon called a man to hold Thurton’s horse as he dismounted. “Where is that usurper Richard de Heigham?” he shouted.
His presence and his words, aggressive and commanding, struck terror in Meg’s soul. Dreams of safety and peace were shattered. Panic seized her.
“Sarah,” she hissed. “Wake up.”
“What is it?” Sarah was alert almost immediately. In two seconds she was out of bed. She ran to Meg’s side.
“God help us!” she prayed.
“He’s come to take possession of the castle,” Meg said grimly. “He’ll go mad when he finds us here. What can we do?”
“For a start we’d best get dressed,” Sarah said, with her usual practicality. “Quick as we can. Don’t waste time changing your shift, my lady. I’ll help you to put your kirtle on over it.”
It was sound advice. She had never dressed quicker.
Then Richard’s voice rang out loud and clear. “I am no usurper.”
Meg hurried to the window again, though she stood back from it, not wishing to be seen by those below. Boldly Richard was striding out of the castle. He had hurriedly pulled on his nether garments over his wide-sleeved nightshirt and had belted on his sword. “Leet Castle is mine by right of birth. And so I shall prove one day.”
“If you live that long,” snarled Thurton.
“Do you want to make an issue of it?” demanded Richard. His hand was on his sword.
“You wouldn’t stand a chance. Reinforcements are following me,” Thurton told him. “But I have no desire to fight. In fact, if you co-operate, I may consider handing the place over to you. I want as little trouble as possible so that we may prepare for the impending visit of the King.”
Meg’s fear deepened. Sarah gasped. They clung to each other for comfort and strained their ears to the voices from below.
“I must, of course, feel honoured to expect a visit from His Majesty,” said Richard. “But why should he deign to come here?”
“Not to see you, de Heigham,” sneered Thurton. “The King wishes to renew his acquaintance with the lovely Lady Margaret. You know he has taken a great fancy to her.”
“Lady Margaret is not here,” declared Richard.
“Really? The good monk Father Bernard told us otherwise. He says that you kidnapped the lady and carried her off against her will from my house
in London.”
“That is a lie,” Richard declared. “You will not find the lady here.”
What foolishness was that? thought Meg. They would search and she would soon be discovered.
“Oh, my lady—what shall we do?”
At that moment the door of Meg’s chamber was flung open. The Captain of the Guard stood on the threshold. He was clearly in a great hurry, and his eyes had a wild look, but he bowed politely.
Meg drew back in alarm. This was the man of whom Richard had spoken so trustingly.
“My apologies, my lady. You have seen what is happening below. Sir Richard is holding Thurton and his men at bay, but he cannot do so for long. You are to come with me, and I will lead you to safety through an underground passage. They must not find you here.”
Chapter Thirteen
Captain Bennington delivered the order so positively that Meg instinctively prepared to obey. She was eager to go and there was little time to think. The very idea of being caught again in the clutches of her uncle and Nancy made her flesh creep. Certainly it seemed sensible, and safer, both for her and for Richard, that she should get away from Leet. And yet—was it the right action to take? She hesitated.
The voice of Gervase Gisbon, shouting accusingly, floated up clearly through the open window.
“De Heigham is lying. It is as the holy friar said. He abducted the lady for his own evil desires. I have seen them often together. They are lovers!”
“You lie,” Richard yelled.
The Captain seized Meg’s arm. “For the love of God, my lady, come with me as quick as you can.”
“No.”
“You must get away. Did you not hear that the King is coming?”
“I did. And he will be told that I was abducted by Sir Richard. He is being falsely accused of conduct that could be deemed treason,” she said. “Only I can refute that charge.”
“Sir Richard is well able to look after himself,” said the Captain. “He will get out of this scrape, as he has escaped from many others. When I have led you to safety, I will return and assist him—”