by Aileen Adams
Not the ideal outcome, but the one they had been given to work for.
A wolf howled, making her jump. The guard chuckled. “Not to worry. The Marquis’s horses are the swiftest in Cherbourg, along with being the most beautiful. They can outrun anything.”
“I am glad to know it,” she whispered, meaning every word. There was no escaping the sense of eyes staring at her from the darkness, eyes which glowed with a ravenous light. She had always hated the woods in the dark—never more so than just then, when her nerves were all but destroyed and the humble supper she’d shared with Quinn on the ship threatened to revisit her in a most gruesome fashion.
What was she going to do?
The moon had fully risen by the time they crested one final hill, allowing them a view of the entirety of the Marquis’s estate which stretched out below.
Even in her panic, Ysmaine noted the imposing, impressive which sat in the center of it all, the river which ran through the estate coursing past the long, tall walls of gray stone. At two corners were rounded towers which stretched above the tops of the crenelated walls, and from inside the walls rose a tall, square tower from which guards must have kept watch.
All around it was some of the loveliest land she had ever laid eyes upon, covered at the north and west by juniper trees which glowed silver in the moonlight. The river, cutting from west to east, sparkled in the same light, reminding her of the river by which she had lived her entire life.
Was her grandfather’s estate anything like this? If so, she would not know what to do with it.
Quinn asked the guard inside the carriage a question which Ysmaine could not make out, but it was enough just to hear his voice and remember the great danger he was in. Why had they not formed a plan in case of emergency? Had they been foolish enough to believe nothing would go wrong?
They rode over a stone bridge which spanned the river, then followed the road straight up to the castle door. Ysmaine craned her neck to peer up at the tower, knowing someone up there was looking down at her.
And that they had likely sent word to the Marquis of her arrival.
Two young men opened the double doors, revealing the whirl of activity inside the castle walls. The guard drove the horses through and into a courtyard, where another pair of lads were quick to unhitch the animals while the guard helped Ysmaine from the carriage.
He began to lead her away, into the keep, where an old woman in a head scarf waited.
“Might I not speak to him first?” Ysmaine asked, casting a look over her shoulder to where the second guard pulled Quinn from the carriage.
She had once watched a flock of birds fall upon a wounded rabbit and tear it to pieces. One moment, there had been not a bird in sight. The next, the entire world went black as one shiny black bird after another came seemingly from nowhere at all to join in the feast.
This was what the sight of so many guards descending upon Quinn brought to mind. She bit her lip to hold back a cry of pure anguish even as her feet carried her to the front door of the castle’s keep.
“So, this is the young woman we’ve awaited so anxiously,” the old woman said, examining Ysmaine with a shrewd eye. “So be it. The Marquis will be glad to have you here at last.”
Something about this seemed strange to Ysmaine, though she could not understand exactly what set her instincts aflame. As far as the Marquis and his household were concerned, she was nothing more than a guest of the house. There to conduct the business of settling her grandfather’s estate.
Then again, she reasoned, if the two of them were close, it made perfect sense for him to regard her with a proprietary air. Like as not he’d promised her grandfather to take care of her.
“Come,” the woman bade, waving for Ysmaine to follow her. “You’ll want to bathe, I’m sure, and to change out of that filthy rag.”
Her kirtle had once been the finest garment she owned. Her mother had seen to its creation. She ran her hands down the front of it as she followed the fleet-footed woman through stone-floored corridors, passing beneath massive iron chandeliers and pointed archways.
“It does need a washing,” she admitted, chuckling more from nerves than humor.
The woman snorted. “It needs to burn in the fire, that’s what it needs.”
Ysmaine bristled at this slight, though she did her best to conceal her ire. “Just the same, I have nothing else. I lost my trunk in Scotland, on the road.”
“Not to worry, my dear.” The old woman led her up a wide set of stairs, then down a corridor and into a bedchamber where a metal washtub sat in front of a blazing fire. Two young women were only just in the process of filling it with steaming water when Ysmaine entered.
They curtsied and went back to their work, leaving the room in haste once they’d finished. The old woman clasped her hands together, looking about the lavish room. “Well, then. I will leave you alone to have your bath, unless you require assistance in washing your hair, or anything of the sort.”
“N—no,” Ysmaine stuttered. “I haven’t lived with servants, so I am accustomed to performing such tasks on my own.”
What struck her as amusing was the way in which the woman—clearly a member of the household’s workers—wrinkled her nose in distaste at the notion of a young woman living without servants. Ysmaine would have wagered nearly anything that the woman had never received the assistance of a servant girl in all her life.
“Very well, then,” was the reply. “There is a fresh kirtle for you on the bed, along with underdrawers and stockings. I suppose you will be a bit thin for them, but they will suffice.”
Clothing had been laid out for her…?
“Thank you very much.” It was Ysmaine’s deepest desire to be alone with her thoughts, of which there were many. She hurried the woman from the room and leaned against the closed door, taking in her surroundings once again.
It was quite grand, on the whole. Stone walls held up a ceiling of wooden boards with thick beams stretching from the far wall to the one behind her, in the center of which hung an iron chandelier such as those she had seen throughout the keep.
Touching the center of the wall to her left was the head of a large, wooden bed with carved posters at the corners and rich, heavy velvet curtains in deep emerald green.
Opposite the foot of the bed sat the large fireplace, logs crackling away inside as they burned. A pair of chairs sat off to the side, moved away to make room for the washtub. Beside it stood a small table which held a cake of brown soap and several linen sheets for drying.
Just as the servant woman had promised, a fresh kirtle had been laid out across the bed. She fingered the fine cloth, dyed a lovely shade of blue, and admired the softness of the stockings and undergarments lying beside.
She merely wondered what all of this was about. Why did she deserve this? While she may have been a family friend, she was a stranger. Was the Marquis truly this hospitable? She did not know how French nobility conducted themselves in such matters, after all.
She knew nothing of any nobility whatsoever.
The washtub called to her, its contents still sending up steam in thin wisps. She was quick to strip down, then to unwind the bandage from her leg. She touched tender fingers to the closed, healing wound and was pleased to see how well it looked. There would be a scar, like as not, running from the outside of her mid-thigh nearly to her knee, but that was preferable to losing her leg.
Or her life.
It was a struggle not to think of Quinn as she lowered herself into the hot water, her muscles relaxing deliciously as she did. The water was scented with some wonderful oil, perfuming her skin and hair as she washed.
When she ran the soap over her leg, she remembered how gently Quinn had applied her bandage at the inn. Hours had passed since then, though it might just as well have been a lifetime.
Wherever he was, it was likely that he did not bathe in perfumed water.
No more than half of an hour passed before there was a brisk knock at the doo
r. Before she could answer, having just stood and wrapped herself in a sheet, the old woman entered the room once again.
“You are not yet dressed.” It was not a question.
“I am sorry, I was not aware of the need to hurry,” she apologized.
The woman sighed, her already wrinkled forehead wrinkling further in displeasure. “Just as well, I suppose. I will send one of the girls in to brush and braid your hair, do not protest, please,” she added, holding up a hand when Ysmaine opened her mouth to do just that.
She was quick to dry and dress after that, fearing what might happen if she did not put on speed. A young girl entered moments later with a comb which she worked through Ysmaine’s wet curls with deft motions. She spoke not a word, and thus it was a surprise when she stepped away.
Ysmaine touched the smooth braid. “Thank you,” she smiled.
The girl smiled back but gave no reply.
“Now, then,” the old woman declared, clapping her hands together twice to signal the entrance of the same young women who had filled the tub, “it is time to see the Marquis. He has been waiting most anxiously for your arrival.”
Evidently so.
All Ysmaine could do was wonder why.
24
The Marquis was enjoying a late supper, the woman informed her as they walked in customarily rapid fashion through the lower floor of the keep. Ysmaine nearly had to run to keep up, which did her leg no favors.
She also wished to take her time so that she might better appreciate all that was around her. They passed so many open doors, but there was no time to even glance inside. How did a Marquis live, after all?
“Are you hungry?” the woman inquired, not bothering to favor Ysmaine with so much as a backward glance.
“I am,” Ysmaine admitted. “Excuse me, but what is your name?”
“Why do you ask?”
Ysmaine blushed. “I wished to thank you for your assistance, but I do not know how to address you.”
“I am Madame Jean,” she replied. “I have the run of the household.”
That much was evident from the way the woman need only clap her hands to issue a command. “Thank you, Madame Jean,” Ysmaine smiled. “I was very much in need of a bath. It helped greatly.”
“Yes, you were.” Ysmaine could not see the woman’s face, but she would have wagered there was a sneer on those thin lips.
She did not like Madame Jean.
The smell of roast duck cast all other concerns from Ysmaine’s head—every concern but Quinn—and she followed the intoxicating aroma to the banquet hall which sat at the far end of the keep.
The walls were rounded, bringing to mind to the two rounded corners which Ysmaine had noted from outside, giving the room the appearance of a half-circle. A long, wide table ran the length of the room, with several smaller tables positioned nearer the windows. Candles burned up and down the table’s length and in the trio of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
All of that for one single man, seated at the table’s head with a feast spread out before him.
The first thing Ysmaine noted was his considerable girth. The man was not merely portly. He was enormous, with several chins and a stomach which hung far past a leather belt positioned low on his hips.
His thick fingers expertly picked meat from the bones of the roasted bird before him before wide, purple-tinged lips opened to accept a new morsel.
He was a man who enjoyed food and drink, to be sure. He had the wealth with which to do so.
“So, you have finally graced my home with your presence,” he declared, wiping both hands on the linen tablecloth before standing. She found him to be shorter than herself by half a head, and his thick hair was more gray than black. He was likely older than her father, perhaps a contemporary of her grandfather.
“I offer my sincere apologies for the delay,” she smiled as he helped her into a chair at his right hand, trying not to look directly at the stain in the center of his chest. Judging from what she surveyed before her on the table, he had dripped gravy.
“I understand you ran into a fair bit of trouble along the way, my dear.” He patted her hand—leaving grease behind which she dearly longed to wipe clean—before taking his seat once again. “Please, eat your fill. You look as though you need the nourishment.”
She helped herself to roasted potatoes and turnips, stewed apples, a duck leg, a hunk of crusty bread.
Quinn will not be eating so well. The thought robbed her of an appetite, no matter how enticing the aroma which filled the air. Rather than tucking in, she pushed the food back and forth on her plate.
“What did you do with the man captured in the village?” she asked. “He never harmed me, I swear to you.”
The Marquis shrugged as he licked something from his fingers, turning her stomach even further. “He held you captive, did he not? He wished to collect a ransom for your safe delivery. I can only imagine the terrible things you endured while in the presence of such a brute.”
He was all kindness and sympathy, but Ysmaine was sharper than he gave her credit for. She sensed an undercurrent of disgust, even anger.
Would she not be angry, too, upon finding out that a man had endeavored to take money from her?
“He saved me from a true brute,” she argued. “A man who wished to… take me away and harm me greatly.”
“Killed him, then, did he?”
“Yes, he did. There was no other choice in the matter. I was wounded before the man died, and the wound became gravely infected. Quinn—the man you captured—took me to a healer and paid dearly for her services. I would most certainly have died were it not for him.”
The Marquis nodded slowly. “I see. You do realize, however, that you would never have been attacked in such a manner when left in the care of my guards? And that you would not have needed the attention of a healer were it not for that attack?”
“One of your guards had already been killed by a band of thieves, shortly after leaving my home,” she informed him. “Leon.”
He sighed, shaking his head mournfully. “A great loss, to be sure. What of Geoffrey?”
“Quinn tied him to a tree,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing at the memory.
“So, you are telling the truth.”
Her eyes widened. “Why would I lie?”
“Why would you write a letter, claiming you were in danger from a man who you now claim did you no harm?” He did not wait for her reply before continuing. “Geoffrey returned to me two days ago. It seems a rescuer found him tied to that tree and provided him with clothing and passage to France.”
So he had already known of her kidnapping before they had stepped foot on French soil. What fools they had been.
“I am glad to hear Geoffrey is well,” she murmured, looking down at her plate. “As for the letter, you can imagine the pressure I was under to say and do what I felt must be said and done. I wanted only to make my arrival, finally, to settle my grandfather’s estate and come into possession of what was mine. I would have returned the ten pounds to you from the state, I swear it. It seemed so little an amount for a man such as yourself, while to Quinn it would mean the world. He needs it for his brother—”
“I care nothing for what a thief needs,” the Marquis sneered. “And as for returning the sum to me from the estate of your grandfather…”
She waited to hear how he would finish his statement. Once again, her instincts screamed a warning. Something was very wrong.
“My dear,” he whispered, leaning toward her. It took all of her self-control not to lean back, away from him. “My dear, you seem to be mistaken as to the nature of this arrangement.”
She swallowed, suddenly glad she had not taken a bite of food from his table. It might come back up.
“What do you mean?” She twisted the tablecloth around her fists, under the table, her nerves strained to the breaking point at this turn of events.
What had only just been a solicitous, sympathetic look in his eye turn
ed hard. Cold. “You see, your grandfather did not leave the entirety of his estate to you.”
She stammered. “But—but your letter—”
“I did not tell a lie,” he informed her, drinking from his chalice as though he had not a care in the world. He might just as well have been holding a conversation with a friend. “The estate is to be yours, or rather is meant to pass into the hands of your family.”
“My… family? My family is dead,” she whispered, knowing this was not his meaning but needing to stall for time because his words made no sense.
“I was not speaking of that family,” he chortled. “I know they are dead. Your grandfather was well aware of it, too. He kept accounts of their dealings over the years, which was how he knew of your existence. Louise certainly never sent word. Perhaps she forgot how to write, living with heathen brutes as she did, and she certainly never deigned to reply to the letters which sent her.”
“I take offense to that,” Ysmaine was quick to reply, no longer caring whether this terrible man found her rude or unbecoming. “My father was not a heathen nor was he a brute. He loved my mother very dearly, and she loved him. They were dear parents, always kind to me, and we lived quite happily.”
“I do not care one way or another for your memories.” He sounded bored now, leaning back in the chair with his hands folded over his bulging stomach. “Louise was far too good for any filthy Highlander. She was raised to be the wife of a nobleman, to hold court with the brightest of French society. Instead, she chose to debase herself.”
“You cannot say that in my presence!” She was close to flying into a rage of temper, and she knew it, but it mattered little. If anything, the Marquis seemed amused.
As a cat would while toying with a mouse.
“At any rate,” he continued, waving a greasy hand in her direction, “there was no chance of a fine, upstanding man such as your grandfather leaving his estate to the daughter of a brute and his bride. Not entirely to her, that is.”