"Maybe you are right. I should not have been angry with Ellen, and it was not my place to speak to her as I did. That I was so easily distracted should never have happened, and is no excuse. I should find and talk to her before she becomes any angrier with me."
"You are a brave man to willingly face that little lioness,” Gordon laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. Before he could say anything more, Nicholas appeared. Gordon noted the few men-at-arms lingering about showed renewed interest in the late arrival. Gordon stared at Nicholas while addressing David “You have something to attend to, David. I would see to it before much more time passes."
David reluctantly left Gordon to deal with the arrogant Nicholas St Thomas. His own business with Nicholas was far from concluded, but it was wiser to defer to Gordon for the time being. The Englishman could hold his own. David nodded and chuckled to himself as he strode toward the castle. So Ellen plans to marry me, does she? I suppose I will have to apologize first.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"You have him well trained,” Nicholas chided, glancing at David's retreating back. “It would do you more credit if you taught the cur to stop sniffing around Ellen's skirts."
Gordon took offense at the insult to both his friend and his sister, but stood his ground. “If anyone is sniffing about my sister's skirts,” he replied with a calm he barely felt, “it would be you, Nicholas. What do you want?"
"I want that heathen Scotsman to stay far away from Ellen. She is mine."
"I think Lady Ellen would have something to say about that, would you not agree?” Gordon straightened and stepped toward Nicolas.
"No, I do not. She has proven many times she is too slow to think for herself on matters of importance."
"If that be the case, why do you claim her?” Gordon kept a wary eye on Nicholas’ casual movement, turning as Nicholas slowly circled him. At the same time, he was aware of the men-at-arms drawing a bit closer, anticipating some quick move on the part of either young man.
"Slow thinking women are biddable. They are only able to do as they are commanded.” Nicolas smirked and rested one hand on his dagger.
"Then you do not know Ellen as well as you think.” Gordon jumped back as Nicholas lashed out with his dagger. “It seems to me,” he remarked casually, “you had a similar confrontation with David, not long ago. Did you not learn anything from the encounter?” Gordon jumped back once more, as Nicholas thrust again, his face flushed by the reminder of the embarrassing incident by the stream.
They circled each other, like two wolves fighting for domination over the pack. Both paid little heed to the soldiers gathered around. Some shouted out advice to the adversaries, while others placed wagers on the outcome. While Nicholas had no desire to become a knight, he was a devious and formidable opponent. A few soldiers wagered on him, counting on unexpected play to give him the fight.
Taking the offensive, Nicholas jabbed at his opponent, but his thrust was pushed aside. He grabbed at Gordon's knife hand, using all his might to hold it back while applying pressure on his wrist to force Gordon to drop his weapon. The strength in Nicholas’ arm wavered, as Gordon stubbornly held a tight grip on his dagger. The unexpected release of Gordon's arm, brought his dagger down swiftly.
Nicholas brought a hand up to his face, tracing the burning sensation from temple to jawline. His fingertips were covered with blood. The dagger tip penetrated just enough to require stitches. He would have a scar not easily forgotten. He turned a deadly gaze to his opponent. “This is not over by any means,” he warned and stalked out of the training yard. Someone handed him a cloth and he held it against the wound. Several soldiers looked after him, while others busied themselves collecting their winnings.
* * * *
Nicholas knew the priest would be in the chapel and could tend to the wound. Going to Lady Margaret for help was out of the question. She was one of the family and would side with them, even if they were in the wrong. “Bernard,” he shouted in the small chapel. The priest had to be around here somewhere. He rarely wandered far from the castle, except when he went to the village. “Bernard, where are you? Come out here now.” Nicholas called out again. He forced his anger into the chapel doors, shoving them open and sending the resulting thud echoing off the walls.
Sandals scuffed along the chapel's stone floor in hurried steps. Father Bernard wheezed noisily as he tried to catch his breath. “Forgive me, my lord, I did not hear you at first...” The priest stopped short at the sight of Nicholas’ wound. “What has happened to you?"
"Never mind what has happened. Take care of it.” Nicolas snarled as he dropped on to one of the benches, still holding the cloth to his throbbing wound.
Father Bernard scurried off to his own little room off the chapel, and quickly returned with a large tray bearing a bowl of water and clean cloths, needle and thread, and a flagon of wine which he set down beside Nicholas. The younger man tipped his head back and to the side as the priest slowly dribbled wine into the bloody gash. Nicholas’ jaw clenched as he released a hiss of pain. His knuckles whitened from the death grip he held on the edge of the seat. A moment later, Bernard jumped in fear when Nicholas grabbed the flagon from his hand and took a large gulp of the potent liquid.
"I always wondered how you managed to get the best wine around here.” He took another drink, then handed the flagon over to the priest. He flinched as Bernard dabbed at the wound, trying to clean it. “Have you found someone suitable to carry out my plan?"
"I am not sure I should be involved in this scheme of yours, my lord. I have a great deal to lose if I were to be caught."
Nicholas grabbed the priest's wrist and stilled his work. He turned a glare of hot fury on the priest. “You have a great deal more to lose if you do not do as I bid. Have you forgotten? I know about your visits to the village—visits you claim are to comfort the villagers, when in reality, you are concerned only with your own comfort. How do you think the duke would look upon your activities, cavorting with one of the young girls?” His eyes darkened as he fixed his gaze on the older man. How could he have ever looked up to this man? This priest lacked the vision and ability to better himself. Nicholas despised the man for the hypocrite he was, but also realized that same hypocrisy would make a useful tool.
Bernard flushed and his hand shook, as he drew back from Nicholas. “Surely, you don't think I would...” For several years, Bernard took pleasure in the adoration he received from Nicholas, but now he wondered at what point things had begun to change. The boy had grown to become a devious young man. Knowing what Nicholas wanted now, had wanted for a long time, Bernard feared becoming involved in his plans. How could Nicholas know about the young widow, unless he has spies about? I believe he will do most anything to get what he desires. Would he go so far as to kill a man of the cloth? The priest trembled at the thought.
"I not only think, I know what you do. I learned a good deal from you, Bernard. Never underestimate me.” Nicholas turned the damaged side of his face to the priest once more. “Now, have you found someone to carry out my plan?"
"Yes, my lord. I found a man who will suit your plan well. I have seen to getting him cleaned up, and attired in some decent clothes to fit the part you have in mind."
"Good. How soon can he be sent on his way?"
"He will be gone within the hour, my lord.” Bernard sounded contrite. As much as it galled Bernard, he would bow to this man to keep the few freedoms he had at Ravencliff.
Nicholas suppressed a grin. He now owned the priest, satisfied the relationship would make it easier to get what he wanted, and he wanted Ellen. “Very good. Make sure our man uses the route laid out for him. I want results as soon as possible."
CHAPTER NINE
Ellen stopped in her own bedchamber long enough to be shed of the boy's clothes hidden under her working gown. She rolled them up and stuffed them inside a chest of clothes no one used. Flipping her skirts away from her slippered feet, she turned sharply and marched up to the solar. Thankfully
, Lady Margaret and Kitty were not in the room at the moment. Ellen expected they would return before long, but she savored the time she had alone. On one stool lay two newly sewn and stuffed feather pillows, ready for use. Beside another stool was a large burlap bag filled with feathers Cook had saved from plucked dinner birds.
Ellen released a huff and plunked down on the empty stool, then dragged one of the new pillows onto her lap. How dare David speak to her that way? He had no right to order her about. Well, maybe she should not have been near the training yard, she thought guiltily. Her father had warned her many times, it was no place for a lady. Still, she found it difficult to resist watching David at practice. For the first time, she saw him differently, not as the boy she once followed about, but as the man he had become. She did not understand the strange feelings assailing her every time she caught a glimpse of him heading to practice, or in the great hall, and she most certainly did not like the obvious stares the serving girls turned in his direction when he was about. She didn't like the feelings of jealousy that overcame her when she saw him flirting with those same serving girls. Ellen gave the pillow a hard punch with her small fist, not sure if she were angry with him for shouting at her, or at herself for speaking words she had no business saying. She scowled, and grabbed one edge, crushing the linen tightly in her fingers.
"What did you think you were doing?"
Ellen's head snapped up at the question. She failed to hear David enter the solar. “What do you want?” She would have preferred not to see him at this moment.
"You do not belong near the training yard, Ellen. It is dangerous, and females are too distracting. Besides, you would hear things no lady ought to hear.” He leaned against the doorframe, his arms arrogantly folded across his broad chest.
"Yes, it would be an affront to our delicate sensibilities.” There was no mistaking her sarcasm. She stopped a moment, considering what he had just said. “Do you find me distracting, David?” Ellen lowered her eyes back to the pillow and slowly brushed her hand across the fabric.
The young knight blushed. “Yes ... I mean no. Stay away from there."
"Who are you to give me orders?” Ellen straightened her back and clenched her jaw, holding tightly to her stubborn streak. Deep down, she knew he was right, but she could not release the anger she felt with herself and him.
"Your father should take a switch to you. You are, by far, too willful.” David scowled at her as he straightened his stance and moved into the room.
Ellen gasped in shock and jumped up from her seat. Without warning, she swung the pillow as hard as she could, hitting David in the chest. “How dare you!” She stumbled backward when the blow connected, and nearly fell over the stool behind her. She regained her footing and prepared to charge again.
"Ha!” Ellen was pleased when David staggered back from the blow. She saw the surprise look on his face, that she dared to strike out at him again. Ellen steeled herself when he laughed and grabbed the second pillow, preparing to defend himself. His features registered amazement at the force she managed to get behind every swing, forcing him back.
"Ah, it is a joust you want, fair maid, it is a joust you shall have. Prepare to defend yourself,” he warned in a mocking tone, and waved his pillow at her.
Ellen glowed inside from her new found strength as he used his pillow to ward off her blows, but refrained from hitting her directly. “I intend to give you and your orders a sound thrashing, you...” she snarled, as words failed her.
The more David laughed, the harder Ellen hit him. Every swing hitting his broad chest set Ellen fighting to keep her balance. His defense grew weaker from laughter, as her anger spurred her on. Her balance became more unsteady with every swing, forcing her do an awkward dance to keep pounding him with the plump weapon. “Stand still and take your medicine like a man, you coward.” She shrieked at the man holding his sides from the pain of laughter. Soon, stitches were torn from pillow seams, and feathers floated about the room like a soft blizzard. David swung his pillow once again, and hit Ellen's shoulder hard enough to knock her to the floor. She landed with a thump and sat sprawled on the floor among the rushes, with her hair in her face. A flurry of feathers coated her clothes.
"What is going on in here?” Lady Margaret stood in the doorway staring at the mess. A few feathers still floated gently on the now stilled air, and finally settled to the floor. She exhaled sharply as a single feather drifted lazily near her nose, and sent it afloat again. Margaret watched David reach out a hand to help Ellen to her feet, only to have the girl sharply slap it away. Fury remained etched in Ellen's features. Molly stood behind Margaret, peeking over her mistress's shoulder, and giggled at the sight within the room. Her mirth was quickly subdued when Margaret glanced back over her shoulder and cast a dark look on the servant.
"You, my lord, have no business here in the women's solar. Kindly take yourself out of here. If you have so much idle time, perhaps I should speak to the duke about stepping up your training.” She folded her arms across her chest, glaring at David.
David had the good grace to blush with embarrassment. Bowing to Margaret, he spoke respectfully. “Forgive me, my lady. I only meant to..."
"Out now, before I set you to cleaning this mess.” Margaret fought to contain her own amusement at the sight of the two flustered young people.
David bowed once more, then strode quickly from the room and down the hall. He stopped briefly to rub at his sore chest, and grinned. Who would have thought the Sprite could have such a deadly aim with a pillow. I have not had that much fun since ... I cannot recall since when. David continued along the corridor, then stopped again. I came up here to apologize to her and never got the chance. Mayhap the apology should wait until she calms down and there are no pillows at hand. David quickened his steps before Margaret had a chance to change her mind and call him back.
* * * *
When David was gone, Ellen picked herself up from the floor and brushed off her gown, only to set feathers flying about again. “Aunt Margaret, you would not believe what that.... “She was cut short by her aunt's upheld hands.
"I do not want to know what went on between you two, to cause such a furor. At this moment, I expect you to help Molly and Edwina clean up this mess. Then you will repair the linen and restuff the pillows."
Ellen opened her mouth again.
"Not a word from you, young lady, and at the moment, you are not deserving of the title.” her aunt sternly warned, then watched Ellen set about her task. When the girls were busy, Margaret fought to suppress a grin. Despite the mess, it did look as if it had been a good bit of fun.
Ellen sighed and set to work repairing the seams of the pillows and stuffed feathers back into them. David should have been here to help. After all, it is his fault I hit him. Just as well Aunt sent him away. Ellen did not understand nor did she like this constant anger toward the Scotsman. She had never felt this way before. If he had stayed, she most likely would have kept hitting him until the pillows were in total shreds. How dare he laugh at me?
Ellen shoved her needle through the fabric, ignoring the remaining feathers caught in the rushes. One or two popped up as she shifted her position on the stool, creating a slight draught. It would have been impossible for the servants to get them all.
The room was quiet, with her aunt as the only other person present. Ellen's anger slowly dissipated with every stitch she thrust into the seam, and each hidden feather fluttered out of the rushes. The more she thought on it, the harder it was to suppress further giggles. She glanced up at Lady Margaret, who sat at a large needlework frame, her concentration centered on the figure she worked. Ellen quickly turned her attention to her sewing when Margaret glanced at her, brushing away a lingering feather caught in her canvas.
Never before had Ellen lost her temper with David as she had done this day, and not once, but twice. The first time, she refused to give him a chance to make a sound before stomping off into the castle. Gordon was always the one irrita
ted by her presence, while David was amused. Why had she reacted that way? Ellen continued sewing and bit her bottom lip, wondering how her aunt would react to the question on her mind. She would never have an answer if she never asked the question. She carefully made the next few stitches, as if her sole concentration centered on her needle. She glanced at her aunt once more, then back to her work, and took a deep breath. “How does one know if they are in love?"
The unexpected question broke the stillness. “What?” Margaret stabbed her finger with the sharp needle. She knew a similar question would come from Ellen, eventually. Twelve might not be too young to be thinking seriously on such topics, but not yet. Margaret made a promise to herself, to see David properly disciplined if he was indeed, trifling with Ellen's affections. “Has David done anything that would be improper?” she asked her niece, wanting to be assured of his behavior toward Ellen..
The question surprised Ellen. “Of course not, aunt. He barely speaks to me, and when he does decide to say something, we do nothing but argue."
Margaret seemed satisfied with Ellen's response. Her own thoughts turned inward for a moment, as she lay her hands on her lap and thought of happier times, and treasured memories.
Ellen looked up from her work and found her aunt's features serene. Something shone there she had never noticed before. Is she thinking of her husband? Is that how love looks? She stared in awe, never having seen her aunt in this dreamlike state. Her guardian was always level headed, concentrating on her duties to the duke's household and his children.
Margaret lifted a hand, wanting to reach out to the vision before her. How long had it been since she had last seen her Will? Her memories brought forth a clear image of her husband, as if he stood before her now, but something was different. A gentle breeze blew his long chestnut colored hair away from his face while brandy eyes were dull with pain. His nose was narrow and not quite straight, with a slight bump just below the bridge. One corner of his mouth turned up in a grimace. The shadow of a beard hid sharp angles of his jaw, as well as one end of a thin white line. The scar stretched from ear to chin, along the edge of his jaw. Margaret frowned. You had no scar when you left years ago. Her heart pounded. What has happened to you, Will? Is the scar real, or have I somehow imagined it? It matters not. All that does matter is having you come home safely to me. Wherever you are, I know you are still alive and no one can convince me otherwise.
To Every Love, There is a Season Page 7