Hope Tarr

by Untamed

  Before now, he’d always been so soft-spoken. Even when he’d carried her off from their wedding breakfast, he’d never once raised his voice. Now that he was home in Scotland, however, it seemed bellowing was his preferred method of communicating—another facet of married life to which she could look forward.

  Hands covering her ears, Kate followed him into what apparently served as a dining room these days. A long wooden trestle table, of the sort once used in monastery refectories, dominated the room, a dozen or so carved high-backed chairs thrust around it at intervals. A heavy epergne sat in the center, several of the wax candles melted to stubs. From what Kate could see, there was no electric or even gas lighting. It was as if she’d stepped back into the Middle Ages.

  An old man emerged from the shadows and ambled forward, hunched over and dragging one leg behind him, Quasimodo-fashion. “Here I am, sir, milady?” Brownish eyes, remarkably clear and lively for one so decrepit, lifted to Kate’s face.

  Rourke banged a fist on the table’s edge. “Send word to the kitchen that I am arrived with my bride and that no time is to be lost in bringing forth the feast.”

  “The, uh … feast, good master?”

  “Aye, our wedding supper, and be quick about it.”

  Given Rourke’s humble beginnings, Kate was shocked to hear him barking at a servant, and an elderly one at that. If she didn’t know better, she might suspect he’d been drinking. She tried reasoning with him.

  “At this hour, surely the cook must have retired to bed long ago and the kitchen maids dismissed for the night, as well.”

  Her tentative tone took her aback. She scarcely recognized herself. It wasn’t like her to mince her words. Good God, was she settling into wifedom already?

  Her husband’s gaze hardened. He slammed a fist upon the table, sending one pewter candlestick crashing onto its side. “Then we’ll rouse them, by God, the lazy lot.”

  Kate sighed. Even she could see it was pointless to argue. Let him call for the food and discover for himself that what he bespoke was impossible. Perhaps then he would believe her and let them sit down to a simple but filling cold supper. Even bread and cheese would do at this point.

  Dividing her gaze between the men, she said, “If one of you would point me the way, I’ll go and wash up and be back down in time for supper.” Given the primitive state of everything else she’d so far seen, she doubted the bedchambers were outfitted with plumbing, but perhaps there was a water closet somewhere in the main area.

  Rourke reached for her hand. Apparently oblivious to muck and slobber, he carried it palm side up to his lips. “You seem fresh as a daisy to me.” He held on to her hand.

  A daisy dipped in mud, perhaps. “Nonsense, we are not animals, at least I am not. I will sit down to sup as soon as I wash the filth of the road from my face and hands.” She tugged her hand free. “I shall be a few minutes at most. If you cannot stave off your hunger that long, then by all means begin without me.”

  “Are you suggesting I would sit down to our nuptial feast without my wife?”

  Kate let out a snort, an unladylike gesture to which under the circumstances she felt fully entitled. “Our nuptial feast, as you call it, was this morning’s breakfast, which, thanks to you, I missed. It is too late in the hour, sir, to profess a gentleman’s manners.”

  She would find a place to wash on her own. Mustering as much dignity as she might under the circumstances, she grabbed a fistful of her skirts, fast drying to a stiff mess, and hobbled toward the staircase.

  Watching her go, the dog opened his mouth and yawned, the sound emerging as a cross between a sigh and a whine. Rourke held in a chuckle. What a woman he’d married. He couldn’t help but admire her. Even his dog admired her, which was saying a lot, as Toby was as big or bigger as she.

  Tiny though she might be, her petite frame housed a lioness’s heart. Since that morning, he’d tested her sorely, and yet still she kept her chin up and her back straight—and her spirit unbroken. Subjected to similar circumstances, most London misses would be watering pots now. Not so his bold, brave Kate. His Kate—when had he begun thinking of her as his? To do so was folly, for she had yet to so much as say his given name.

  He waited until “his Kate’s” footfalls disappeared down the corridor, and then whipped about to Ralph. “Bring the food in and be quick about it. The devil only knows how soon she’ll be back. Hurry, man!”

  Ralph reached up to the white beard slipping partway down one side of his face. In retrospect, he really should have been more generous with the spirit gum, but thanks to the slow-moving cabbie he’d taken from the train station, he’d been pressed for time.

  “I am hurrying, sir, but it’s difficult to be quick about much of anything with my leg strapped into this brace.”

  Fortunately he need not go all the way down to the kitchen to fetch the food. The prearranged meal waited in covered serving dishes on a cart in the adjacent room.

  Rourke scowled. Ordinarily he was the most good-natured of employers. Ralph could tell this taming business must have him on edge. “We all have our crosses to bear, Sylvester, and mind I’m paying you handsomely to bear yours. Now, go.”

  Heading off, Ralph was beginning to regret bringing the play to his old friend’s attention. Rourke’s lady didn’t strike him as a shrew in need of taming so much as an overburdened young woman inclined to snappishness. The younger sister, Beatrice, was positively sublime.

  “If you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, playing pranks upon one’s wife hardly seems the way to go about celebrating a marriage.”

  Rourke snorted. “Whatever gave you the notion this is a celebration? It’s war.”

  At wit’s end, Kate lifted one of the tapers from its bracket and set out to find her own way. After several minutes of aimless wandering, she came upon a set of backstairs. The stairs led to a dormitory-style suite of rooms that must have most recently served as the servants’ wing, though the beds were stripped and empty now. The bare-bones amenities included a water closet with a sink and crude crank. She’d used her few remaining pins to put her hair back up as best she could and then washed her face and hands with the rusty water.

  Her exploration took longer than she’d hoped, but eventually she found her way back down to the main hall, and from there the side door leading into the dining room. Given the snail’s pace at which the game-legged servant moved, not even a cold meal could have been made ready in her short time away. She heartily hoped someone had thought to set out some refreshment to ease the wait. A glass of sherry would be lovely, as would a hot cup of tea.

  She stepped inside, the lit candles in the candelabra camouflaging the dirt and dust and adding an ambiance of mellow warmth. Her new husband was ensconced in a thronelike chair at the head of the table, a napkin tucked into his collar and a plate of chicken bones set before him.

  Seeing her, he smiled and beckoned her over but made no move to rise or pull out a chair. “Ah, Kate, there you are. I feared you might have taken a wrong turn.”

  “I did take a wrong turn, several.” She glanced at the drumstick in his hand. “I see you started without me after all.”

  He paused to take a nibble of the meat. “Started and finished, as a fact.”

  “Finished! You can’t mean to say you ate it all?”

  He shook his head. “We Scots have hearty appetites to be sure, but I couldna eat all that bounty nay matter how many breakfasts I missed.”

  “Where is it, then?” Kate would gladly sit down to sup in the kitchen.

  “I had it carted away and tossed in the rubbish bin.”

  “All of it?”

  “Aye, every last morsel. The boiled round of beef was tough as leather and the roast chicken dry as bone. The salmon wasna all that bad, though. It was rare tasty, in fact.”

  “There was salmon?” Kate was very partial to salmon.

  “Aye, served up with buttered green beans and some sort of nuts atop.”

  “Almonds, perhaps, sli
vered?” Kate’s watering mouth was poised to drool like the dog’s.

  “Aye, I believe it was. Rough fellow that I am, such poorly prepared fare is good enough for me, but no for my lady wife.”

  “But I haven’t eaten since last night’s supper. I need food—now!” Her voice, she realized, had shot up rather shrill.

  “Nay worries, I saved some for you.”

  “You did?”

  Staring at the chicken leg in his hand, so little meat left that the bone showed through, it was all she could do to keep herself from lunging forward and wresting it away.

  He pulled the meat off and fed it to the dog. “Aye, I did.” He dipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out a small green apple, and tossed it to her.

  She caught it between both hands. “You are the soul of kindness, sir.” She rubbed it against her dirty gown and then bit in.

  “Mind that forked tongue of yours, Katie, or tomorrow’s breakfast may well go the way of tonight’s supper.”

  The apple to her mouth, she pulled out a chair for herself and sat down. “You cannot starve me—not for long at any rate.” Kate had never before spoken with a full mouth, but the present circumstances called for an exception.

  “Dinna fash, Katie. I’m no out to starve you. You’ve scarce sufficient meat upon your bones as is.” He reached around and slapped her thigh, not hard enough to sting, but the surprise made her start. “Were I to feast upon your smile, were you to serve up a honeyed word every now and again as opposed to only vinegar, sure I’d see that the best of my larder and wine cellar were laid out for your pleasure.”

  “I’d rather starve than cozen up to you.”

  Rourke shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  The apple whittled to its core, she set it on the plate of bones and pushed back from the table. “Never fear, I shall, starting by going to bed.” Picking up her sodden skirts, she stomped toward the door.

  “Whose bed is it you mean to go to?”

  The question stopped Kate in her tracks. Slowly, very slowly, she turned back to face him. Planting her fists upon slender hips, she dug in her heels and glared.

  “If you think to bed me after the brutish treatment you’ve so far dished out this day, then you’d best think again, sir.”

  “That randy, are we?” He raked his eyes over her.

  Having just glimpsed her reflection, she knew full well what he was seeing—dirty hair, dirty face, dirty gown, dirty … everything, as well as pale and hollow-eyed—hardly the most provocative package.

  Returning his gaze to her face, he smiled. “Nay worries, Katie. I can find the willpower to resist your charms for the night at least.”

  “I intend to lock my door all the same.”

  Kate’s eyes blazed with defiance, challenge. Rourke tore off the silly napkin and rose from the table. He moved toward her, closing the gap between them in three long strides until he stood before her, so close he had to be careful not to tread on her feet, the shoeless one especially. A lesser woman—make that most women—would have backed down or at least backed up a step or two. Not so Kate. She neither moved a muscle nor budged an inch. Drenched, filthy, and foodless, still she held her ground, tipped back her head, and met his gaze head-on with a fierce, unflinching look of her own.

  Captivated in spite of himself, he reached down and lifted her chin on the edge of his hand. Given the drenching she’d endured, he’d expected to find her flesh cold as marble, but instead it was warm and glowing and impossibly soft. He couldn’t resist. He wrapped his hands about her forearms, reed-slender yet strong, and bent to brush his mouth over hers.

  He drew back. “Make no mistake, lass, when I decide to claim my husbandly rights, no wee lock shall keep me from you.”

  Mutinous eyes glared up at him. “Is that a threat?”

  He dropped his hands and stepped back. “Nay, sweeting. That is a promise.”

  After the impromptu kiss, Kate hadn’t stayed to test Rourke’s promise to leave her alone for the night. She grabbed her candle and dashed from the dining room in search of a bed. Surely in a castle this size, if she kept opening doors, sooner or later she would come upon a suitably equipped bedroom.

  At some point the dog, Toby, joined her. Like his master, he had a full stomach and apparently nothing better to do than plague her. After opening more doors, including closets, than she cared to count, she found a cubby-sized room. Like the other rooms she’d so far peeked into, the bed was stripped of both linens and mattress, but there was at least a heavy, carved chest in the corner. Holding her candle aloft, she checked the ceiling. Aside from one cobweb in the opposite corner, she didn’t see any evidence of spiders. And the door had a latch.

  Encouraged, she crossed the room. She stuck the stub of candle into an empty candlestick holder and then knelt to open the chest. The lid was heavy. She had to use both hands. She heaved it up on screeching hinges, sending dust clouds flying. Eyes watering, she rifled inside. She pulled out a heavy tapestry coverlet that had seen better days and a smaller, lighter blanket. She dragged the coverlet over to the fireplace and laid it out, then rolled the blanket to serve as a pillow. A squeak drew her attention to the door, as yet unlocked. The dog nosed his way inside and lumbered over to her. She tried leading him out by the collar, but he stiffened his legs and stood his ground. Kate was too tired to argue.

  “All right, you can stay, only not in my bed, such as it is. You can sleep in that corner.” She pointed him to the corner without the web.

  Tail thumping, he stared up at her with liquid brown eyes and stretched out on the coverlet anyway.

  Kate sighed. She crossed to the door and slid the rusty bolt in place.

  When I decide to claim my husbandly rights, no wee lock shall keep me from you.

  Shivering, she lightly touched fingertips to her lips and returned to her makeshift bed. The coal bin was near empty. She scrounged the last few bricks and made a piddling fire, which the dog seemed to appreciate. He rolled onto his back and poked all four paws up in the air, displaying a white ruff and speckled belly to go with his otherwise brindled fur.

  “You really are a mongrel, aren’t you?”

  Kate gave the belly a gingerly pat and then tried nudging him over to the side, again without success. For a woman used to being in charge, she wasn’t having much luck being listened to today. She sat down on the vacant patch of the coverlet not covered in dog and held her hands out to the heat. Pins and needles pricked her numb fingers back to life, but her nails were still alarmingly blue.

  What if I died here?

  Setting aside her remaining shoe along with that morbid thought, she stretched out on her side. Ah, lovely. The floor beneath her was cold as a marble tomb and just as hard, but the dog at her back was warm and pliant, if somewhat stinky. So, she supposed, was she. Even if her accommodations left something to be desired, she’d never before taken such pure pleasure in lying her body down for the night. She curled into a comforting ball, tucked her hands beneath her head, and focused on going to sleep.

  But with her eyes closed, the bizarre wedding day played again and again in her mind. How fortunate that she hadn’t any preconceived notions, romantic or otherwise. Most women of her acquaintance expected their weddings to be … well, beautiful. Thinking back on the farcical nuptials and the aborted wedding breakfast, she couldn’t imagine anything less beautiful. Tired as she was, she felt a sob building at the back of her throat. She rolled onto her back, the tears sliding from her temples and melting into her hairline.

  The ruckus had her rocketing upright, the dog with her. The would-be musician with a string instrument stood in the hallway just outside her door. It was Rourke, of course, strumming the score to what vaguely resembled “Greensleeves” and singing the lyrics at the top of his lungs. Kate dragged a hand through her tangled hair and dried her eyes on her crusty sleeve. It seemed her wedding-day torments had yet to end. Along with freezing and starving her, he apparently meant to deprive her of sleep and bleed her ears
.

  Directing her voice to the closed door, she called out, “Are you mad? It’s past midnight.”

  The bellowing abruptly ceased. “We are all fools in love, milady.”

  So he’d said several times earlier. The line he quoted was a famous one. Exhausted as she was, she found herself racking her brain for the author. Be it prose or verse, that he quoted any literary source was itself odd. He didn’t strike her as the poetry-reading sort. Who was the author? Dryden? Poe? Swift? Ordinarily she would have known it off the top of her head—she was the poetry-reading sort—but she was beyond exhausted, not to mention halfway to ill with hunger and chill.

  Kate’s temper rose apace with her voice. Glaring at the door, thankfully locked, she shouted, “You are most certainly a fool, but we are not in love! And it’s bloody late. Go to bed!”

  “Nay, if music be the food of love, I think I’ll play on a while. Betimes, I recall how you fancy being sung to.”

  So that’s what this was about. He still hadn’t forgiven her for making him look foolish that night in the garden. As misbegotten as her plan had been, he really ought to let bygones be bygones. She had just opened her mouth to say so when the din started up again.

  “What the devil is it you’re playing?” Barring bagpipes, she couldn’t imagine a more offensive instrumental.

  Pitching his voice over the music, he answered, “The hurdy-gurdy. Do you play?”

  “No.”

  He paused as if thinking that over. “Meaning not the hurdy-gurdy, or no instrument at all?”

  “I play the piano a little.” Could they really be having this conversation through a closed door at this hour?

  “I could teach you to play the hurdy-gurdy and the Scottish harp, too.” His voice was almost boyish in its enthusiasm.

  “No, thank you.” She was coming to wonder if her new husband might not be a bit, well… off.

  “Do you fancy favoring me with a song, then?”

  “No!” She turned and punched the makeshift pillow. If she was of a mind to “favor” him with anything, it would be her knuckles to his nose.