Redeeming the Rogue Knight

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  Robbie laughed and sang along to her tune, making up nonsense words to accompany her. Lucy dropped her brush into the bucket and picked him up to swirl around in a wide circle. He squealed with delight, but squirmed in her arms when she tried to clutch him in a tight embrace. Already he was independent enough not to tolerate being treated like a baby. She held him a moment longer, needing to treasure him as he was now, before letting him down. He gathered his wooden animals and ran outside without a backward glance.

  Seeing her son content was worth the whispers and sneers she had endured when she had returned in shame, refusing to name the father. She congratulated herself for not succumbing to seduction by another nobleman who would undoubtedly treat her in the manner John Harpur had.

  When someone hammered on her door, her first thought was that Sir Roger had returned. Annoyed at the direction in which her mind had leapt and set her heart racing, she threw the brush back into the pail. He would be miles away by now. She opened the door and found Samuel Risby, the miller.

  ‘Good tidings, Mistress Carew.’ His eyes openly fixed on her breasts in a manner that made Lucy’s toes curl in repulsion. He always managed to make her name sound squalid.

  ‘I’ve brought your malt. Pour me a mug of ale and I’ll unload it.’

  He swaggered to his cart and heaved a sack over his shoulder. ‘Into the brewing shed?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Lucy answered. She speeded inside and filled a mug, intending to take it to the cart, but Risby met her on the doorstep. He eased his hefty frame on to the bench, spreading his legs wide, and accepted the mug.

  ‘It looks like you’re about ready for this sack judging from the other,’ he said. ‘Have you been brewing double?’

  ‘I’ve had to,’ Lucy replied, thinking of the cobweb-strewn brew. ‘I lost a batch.’

  ‘So you’ll be able to pay me for this sack as well as the last? And the one before that?’

  Risby named a price that made Lucy draw an angry breath.

  ‘That’s more than before.’

  ‘Prices have risen. If you don’t like it, find someone else to supply you, or malt your own barley. Either way you still owe me for three sacks.’

  Her debt to Risby had grown without her realising. Lucy thought of the farthing Sir Roger had given her. That had not covered the ale he had drunk or the food he had eaten by a long way. Even considering the pedlars, she had barely earned anything.

  ‘I can give you half for this sack now. When I’ve brewed it, I’ll be able to give you what I owe.’

  ‘Confident you’ll get customers, are you?’ He smirked. ‘You aren’t scurrying around a full house now.’

  Lucy forced a smile although anxiety filled her voice. ‘I’ll find the money.’

  ‘I feel sorry for you, living out here alone. No husband or father to help you. I know you struggle for money.’ Samuel rested his hand on her knee, fingers flexing and unflexing. ‘I’ve heard talk that you don’t mind paying in other ways when you haven’t coins. I’ll take payment any way you wish if you’d rather. I’ll even give you the next sack on account if you do everything I ask.’

  Lucy’s stomach threatened to empty. She stiffened, hoping Samuel would feel her disgust and remove his hand, but he didn’t. She knew which man in Mattonfield had been at the root of such rumours. Desperation caused by the need to put food on the table and buy medicine to ease her father’s pain had forced her to perform acts for the physician that had made her throat fill with bile and her cheeks burn with shame when she thought of them in the dead of night. She had hoped he would have kept her degradation a secret, but clearly she had been wrong.

  ‘I’ll do no such thing!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Don’t play the virtuous maid with me,’ Samuel sneered. ‘That brat of yours didn’t appear from nowhere. Everyone in town knows you’re not the innocent you once were. Assuming you ever were...’

  Lucy’s cheeks flamed. She had been innocent once, had planned to remain so before events took over and she had fallen for a winning smile and coaxing words.

  ‘You’ll get your payment in coins,’ she snarled. She bit down on her lip and shrugged Risby’s hand off her knee. She stood and gestured to his hand. ‘Count the mug you’re drinking now as part of it and get out.’

  Samuel pushed himself off the bench. ‘I’ll be at St Barnabas Fair. I’m sure you’ll be there. You can pay me then, one way or another.’

  He bunched his tunic over his copious belly and sauntered out as if he owned the building. Lucy sagged back down on to the bench and put her head in her hands, no longer strong. Her hands trembled and it took all her strength to stop tears from spilling out. She imagined leaving the inn behind, running far from Mattonfield and the reputation she had made—a reputation of her own doing—but there was nowhere she could go and no one to turn to.

  Robbie toddled into the room and pulled on her skirts. She looked into his solemn brown eyes, glad he had not witnessed the exchange that had taken place.

  ‘Robbie’s hungry.’

  Lucy smiled bleakly at her son.

  ‘I’ll bring you some bread if you go play outside with the chicks, my pet.’

  He waddled out. Now the tears Lucy had been holding back fell freely. Robbie’s tunic was growing too short and she had no means to buy or sew another one. She could have cut down her father’s old shirt except she had given it to Sir Roger. She heaved a sigh, annoyance momentarily causing her tears to cease. A throb of desire pulsed within her at the memory of the knight standing before her, bared to the waist. The bandages had not diminished his attractiveness in any way but accentuated the shape of his muscles half-hidden beneath.

  She broke a morsel of bread from the small loaf and chewed it. It was a day stale and too hard for Robbie’s few teeth. She crumbled some into a bowl and added a splash of milk and water to soften it. That, too, tasted on the cusp of souring. She wrapped her hands tightly across her breasts, still high and full even though her milk had ended. They were useless now for anything other than enduring the fondling of men such as Samuel Risby and the physician as the price to pay for not starving.

  Stinging tears streamed down her cheeks, but pitying herself would do no good, nor brew any ale. She had four days until Samuel would demand his payment and anything could happen in that time. Thomas might return. He would not let his sister starve or be forced into degradation, surely? Sir Roger had mentioned becoming rich if their mysterious task was completed, though explaining how she had thrown the nobleman out would surely put Thomas into a bad mood. Perhaps she had been too hasty in acting.

  Lucy straightened her skirts, wiped her eyes and walked to the yard behind the inn, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. Robbie was in the chicken run arranging and rearranging pebbles in rows. He babbled a greeting as Lucy handed him the bowl. She blew him a kiss and went into the brewing shed.

  Dust hung in the light. Even without looking she knew the thick wooden rafters overhead were heavy with filth. Cleaning those would be a tiring job, but one that could wait until another day. Brewing was the most important task now.

  She inhaled the heady aroma of fermenting barley. Samuel had put the sack inside and she dragged it alongside the almost empty one. Her mood lifted slightly. The batch she had in the vat would be ready in a day or two. That would give her time to make another for the St Barnabas Fair in Mattonfield. She gave her attention to the ale, picking up the wooden paddle to skim the surface.

  ‘That smells wonderful. Perhaps I’ll get to try it when it’s ready.’

  Lucy stiffened, hoping her mind was playing a trick on her. The voice had become ever so familiar to her over the past few days, but she had thought never to hear it again. Now the deep tones reached inside her and stoked fires in her belly that heated her breasts and sent her innards hot and cold at the same time.

  Sir Roger
had returned.

  Chapter Ten

  Lucy waited until her heart found its way back to her chest after trying to leap out through her throat. She wiped her arm across her eyes, roughly brushing away the evidence of her tears before she faced him. He stood in the doorway, leaning against one doorpost for support, his broad frame blocking the light. If she had not known his strength was lacking, she would have thought he was paying a casual visit. His eyes raked over her, taking in the swollen eyes and red cheeks.

  ‘Is it me you’ve been weeping over, dove?’ He grinned.

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ she said, loading her voice with scorn. ‘Why would I ever cry over you?’

  ‘Something else then?’ His smile vanished, his brow furrowed and he gestured towards her with his good arm before withdrawing it hastily. ‘Tell me, if you like.’

  His voice was gentle, as if he actually meant his concern. Lucy’s eyes pricked. This unexpected show of feeling was more unnerving than any innuendo or threat. The promise of pity or comfort from such an unusual source threatened to tip Lucy back into misery and she spoke more curtly than she intended.

  ‘It’s nothing that need concern you.’ She wiped her face again and straightened her cap. She gripped the paddle firmly with both hands like it was the stave she kept beneath the counter.

  ‘What are you doing back here? I thought I told you to leave.’

  Sir Roger didn’t answer immediately, but studied her for a moment longer, eyes still full of concern. She looked away first and he made a curious sound that she couldn’t interpret.

  He looked around the shed curiously. Lucy let him stare, glad of the chance to master the confusing mix of emotions that seeing him had prompted. She moved to the other side of the large vat so it acted as a barrier between them.

  Sir Roger sniffed deeply and gave a sigh of appreciation. ‘It really does smell tempting, doubly so after a long walk.’

  ‘I asked why you’re here,’ Lucy muttered through gritted teeth.

  ‘I fear I am still being hunted.’ Sir Roger clenched his jaw. Lucy could see the muscles in his neck tensing. ‘I dislike this as much as you will, but I must throw myself on your mercy and ask you to take me in once more.’

  ‘No! I told you before I don’t want you under my roof. I have troubles of my own without you adding to my lot.’

  She bit off her words in case Sir Roger asked her once more to share her troubles, but his own needs were preoccupying him. He slumped wearily against the door, looking so weak that Lucy almost rushed to his side.

  ‘I thought we were rid of each other and I was as glad of it as you were. It pains me more than you will understand to discover I cannot make it as far as Mattonfield on foot, much less to Lord de Legh’s house,’ he said. He truly sounded as though the words were excruciating to say. ‘Believe me, I would not be here if there was any other choice.’

  ‘What if I refuse?’ Lucy asked.

  He closed his eyes and rested his head against the door frame, looking as though he might fall to the ground. Now she looked closer, Lucy saw his face was pale and sweat glistened on his brow.

  ‘Then, Mistress Carew, I believe you will be condemning me to death.’

  Lucy gasped aloud. Sir Roger slowly raised his head, baring his teeth in a grimace of despair. He fixed Lucy with dark eyes that bored into her with an intensity that made her shiver. Something pulled inside her, tugging her towards him, again wanting to take him in her arms, soothe his pain away against her breast. She reminded herself why she had made him leave in the first place and forced her heart to harden.

  ‘If you’re hoping to make me feel guilt over your situation, it won’t work. You brought it on yourself.’

  ‘How did I do that?’ He sounded genuinely puzzled.

  ‘You seduced Lord Harpur’s daughter and caused him to send men chasing after you.’

  Sir Roger swore; a single, curt explosion of anger that made Lucy jump.

  ‘Who told you I did that?’

  ‘Thomas.’

  Sir Roger looked furious.

  ‘And you believed him without question?’

  ‘The first time we met, you pushed me against the wall and kissed me,’ she pointed out. ‘It seemed the sort of thing you would do.’

  Sir Roger appeared to be wrestling with some dilemma, then smiled coldly. ‘The charge of depravity has been levelled often enough. Best you know what you’re dealing with, dove. Roger Danby is the sort of man who would bed a maiden in the house of her father, the rogue who would attempt to grope the woman who stands between him and death, a seducer of any woman who takes his fancy. I’m a man not to be trusted.’

  His honesty was unnerving. No man could accuse himself of so base actions without shame. He must be playing a trick to persuade her to let him stay, but if portraying himself as a scoundrel was his plan, it was absurd.

  ‘Do you really mean that?’

  Sir Roger pushed himself upright from his position against the frame. He was in silhouette against the doorway. A fine figure, broad and straight backed, despite the slight lift of his injured shoulder. Lucy was unable to see the expression on his face, but his tone was more embittered than she had heard since they first met.

  ‘Have I given you cause to think anything to the contrary since meeting me?’

  ‘Not at all!’

  He looked taken aback by her outright agreement, but grinned down at her before the smile vanished to be replaced by his serious expression once again.

  ‘Having said all that, I don’t think it is the wronged father who is after my blood in this instance. I now think my pursuers are from a different source.’

  Lucy wrinkled her nose in thought. Something that had nagged at her mind on the night he had arrived came back to her. ‘The men who came here didn’t look like men of Lord Harpur’s,’ she agreed.

  Sir Roger gave her a thoughtful look. ‘How do you know what Lord Harpur’s men should look like? Do you know anything of him?’

  Lucy’s mouth twitched. There was plenty she could say, but saw no need to go into any details of how much she knew of John Harpur, even to this unwanted nobleman who felt less like a stranger every time they talked.

  ‘Everyone knows of him.’

  Sir Roger gave her another odd look. Lucy glanced away.

  ‘I worked on one of the farms he owned, before I returned here.’

  ‘Am I on his land? I thought it belonged to de Legh,’ Sir Roger said.

  ‘It is de Legh’s. I wouldn’t be living on Harpur’s,’ Lucy said. ‘Pass me that ladle.’

  He blinked and showed surprise at her change of subject, but passed her what she had requested. She took it at arm’s length, not wanting to get too close to him. She returned her attention to the vat in front of her, skimming the froth off the top into the pot on the floor.

  Head safely bent over the vat, she spoke. ‘What you have to do with Lord Harpur is none of my business and if you now think your troubles are nothing to do with that matter I care even less. There is no reason for me to help you.’

  Sir Roger had not stepped back and he put his hands on the rim of the vat, peering at her over the top.

  ‘No reason apart from kindness and compassion. I know you have that.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Lucy laughed bitterly.

  He tilted his head to one side. ‘I remember the care you gave me when you thought I was unconscious. Your touch was so gentle and you treated me kindly then. However furious you have been with me—not without reason, I might add—I don’t believe you would cast out a helpless man.’

  Her stomach shuddered at the thought that he had been aware of her hands on his body. The memory of those firm muscles made the tips of her fingers tingle and her heart beat faster. She could not meet his eyes and bowed her
head.

  ‘I don’t want to put my son in danger.’

  Unexpectedly Sir Roger placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I swear I won’t let any danger befall you.’

  ‘I can’t risk that.’

  His fingers tightened the slightest amount. Lucy glanced up. Sir Roger was looking at her intently.

  ‘Like it or not, dove, I’m afraid you’re already involved in this matter.’ His eyes hardened, banishing the weariness from his face. ‘You lied for me. Today while I rested I overheard an exchange between someone from the town—the miller, I am guessing from his clothes—and a man asking after strangers. Money exchanged hands. I met the same miller as I returned here and I told him I was coming here to see you. I also told him we were old friends.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Her hands tightened on the handle of the ladle as fury set her skin on fire. The notion of Sir Roger exchanging pleasantries with Samuel Risby was not something she wished to imagine. He could not imagine the effect his words had on her, far beyond seeking to tip the balance in his favour once and for all.

  Sir Roger resumed his position leaning against the door frame. ‘The rider was looking for a stranger. You had already passed me off as your husband. I thought it safer to continue to pretend familiarity.’

  ‘You told Samuel Risby you were my husband?’ she asked, appalled.

  ‘Of course not! I’m not so loose lipped.’ He gave her a stern look, giving Lucy a glimpse of the man he must be at full strength. ‘I didn’t want to be caught in an obvious lie by people who would know we were not husband and wife.’

  She could guess what Risby would have supposed her relationship to be with a man as handsome as Sir Roger. Her throat flamed with shame. Sir Roger could not have known that, however, and his attempt at caution was oddly endearing, if unnecessary.