"It is nothing," she said. "I only see that my father is much better when he does not eat certain things "
"Oh? What sort of things?"
She twisted the stem of a stalk of chamomile lying on the table. "Goose and duck, old mutton, beef. Even frumerity seems to sit ill with him." With a slight shrug, she again glanced at him shyly. "He growled a lot at first, but he no longer gets the bellyaches he once did."
"And how came you to this thought?"
"I watched to see when he grew ill." She frowned. "Not such a difficult step to take."
He leaned forward. "But not a step all would see." He met her eyes and Rica, unwillingly, saw a glimmer of respect there. A man who would listen to the thoughts of a woman?
She inclined her head and felt her hair fall over her arm and wrist. "Anyone with any intelligence would see it."
"Ah," his grin was swift and devastating. "And we all know how widespread intelligence is."
His phrasing somehow made them a unit, two apart from the teeming masses. It was the first time anyone had thought to recognize her ability to reason.
"Common as tamed boars."
He laughed. What a beautiful mouth he had, Rica thought. Generous, as if it could give—
Startled, she flushed with a painful intensity. A third sin in less than an hour—perhaps four if she counted thinking of the poetry that the priest had forbidden her to read.
But, as with her hat, the damage had been done. Her gaze caught on his throat, long and brown. His shoulders were broad beneath the dark jupon, his calves well shaped in his hose.
The small ache in her chest bloomed as wide as a poppy, touching her breasts and belly.
Then her wandering gaze fell upon his hands. Powerful they were, with the look of hard work in the long dark fingers. But it was the cleanliness of them that struck her. No dirt clung beneath his neatly trimmed nails. The knuckles were scrubbed.
And she became aware of a heady, warm scent the wind blew toward her, a scent of clean male skin mixed with a unique, elusive smell. His smell.
"Who are you?" she asked, suddenly frightened.
"Has your Helga not told you of her student?" His voice dropped to a rough, low tone. "She has told me of you."
"You?" Rica's eyes widened. She sought and found the round yellow patch on his chest, the mark of his Jewry. Her heart squeezed painfully and her words came out on a disappointed note she could not control. "I thought you a burgher's son, by your clothes."
The black eyes hardened a notch. "My father is a merchant," he said. "A rich one—but I am his fourth son and he has granted permission to let me study medicine." He turned his face toward the city. "The pestilence chased me home, but as I wait for better days, Helga has been kind enough to share her knowledge of herbal cures with me."
"And a bright, quick student he is," Helga interjected, emerging from the cottage with several packets of muslin tied in string. A fat black-and-white cat wound around her ankles, and somehow she avoided tripping. "Solomon has learned in a few months what's taken me four years to teach you."
Piqued, Rica lifted her chin. "Perhaps he has better reason." The words came out on a rather more annoyed note than she had intended, and she caught the tail of a grin hidden behind Solomon's hand.
"Oh, now, sweet," Helga said with her husky chuckle, "I meant no harm."
Rica clasped the packets close to her chest and lifted her skirts. "Come, Etta, it is time to return."
Etta rose from the ground, where she had squatted to stroke the cat's wild long fur. Next to her, Leo whined jealously and licked her hand. "Good dog," she said in a clear, high voice.
Helga gasped. Rica glanced at her in alarm, shaking her head quickly once. Then, unable to stop the swell of joy in her chest, she crossed the yard and hugged the midwife. "It's the third time today," she whispered against her ear.
"You must come tell me about this soon," Helga whispered in return, squeezing Rica's arms.
Rica smiled and lifting her skirts, hurried after her sister, who was heading back toward the castle.
* * *
In spite of the fact that Rica watched her sister almost continuously, there was no further manifestation of the strange, alert behavior until late afternoon.
Upon returning to the castle, Etta bent over her tapestry frame and with monotonous concentration, poked the needle in and out, in and out of the fabric. The dog flopped next to her on the rushes, content to sleep nearby his mistress if nothing else were required of him.
Rica leaned restlessly against the embrasure, waiting for her father. There was a newer wing than this two-hundred-year-old keep with its damp walls, but Charles clung stubbornly to his solar, giving the newer quarters to his guests. The lower-slung addition could not hope to compete with this eagle's view of the courtyard and all its goings on.
Below were kitchen maids in the garden, collecting new greens for supper. From some unseen place, a musician plucked a lute, readying it for the evening's entertainment. The priest sneezed his way across the courtyard. Along the walk, two men-at-arms paced slowly, their lackadaisical attitudes shouting of the peace that had reigned since the new emperor had taken his throne. There were always dangers so close to the river, but the reckless, bloody days of Rica's childhood had settled now in this simple peace.
Charles came in, his hawk on his arm. His face was pale and beaded with sweat. "Papa!" Rica exclaimed. "Come sit down."
"Do not flutter so, child," he grumbled, but did not shake off her hands. He allowed her to remove his outer garment, then wash his face with a cloth dipped in cool water.
"You are too fat, Papa," Rica said with a frown. "If you do not stop putting food in your mouth every minute, all summer you will suffer thus."
He waved a beefy hand. "You have taken all my favorites from me. I eat only what is left."
Rica smiled as the color began to return to his cheeks. He was not, in truth, terribly fat, although a round belly filled his tunic well enough. But even the moderate extra weight had him billowing as he took the stairs, flushing in the heat of a summer's day, and sleeping poorly. "It will be easier now we have fresh food. I will go pick cherries for you tomorrow."
He winked and patted her hand, his good humor returning with his wind. "As you wish, liebling. You have been right thus far." He shifted to pour a cup of ale. "Did you bring me some magic potion from Helga?"
"I gave it to Matilda. She will send a girl up with it." She kissed his cheek. "I will leave you," she said with a smile, knowing he would nap until supper and that he hated admitting to an old man's weakness.
Charles caught sight of Etta and frowned. "Take her with you, girl. I am weary of her sitting like a stone in my corner."
"She is not deaf, Papa." Rica whirled, furious at his bad-tempered words, and touched her sister's slim shoulder. "Come, I will dress your hair and you may do mine."
As Etta complaisantly settled her threads in a basket, Rica shot her father a look.
He lifted one bushy gray eyebrow, unapologetic.
Before they left the chamber, one of Charles's vassals appeared, Rudolf der Brumath. A tall man with the grace of a young stag, he smiled genially toward the girls. "I hope I do not interrupt."
"No." Rica smiled. Unlike most of the rest of the castle inhabitants, Rudolf always included Etta in his greetings and she liked him for that.
He bowed now over Rica's hand, then Etta's, turning the latter's over. "I see your wound has healed," he murmured.
Etta bent her head, and a rosy flush of color stained her pale cheeks. "Aye," she whispered.
Startled, Rica glanced quickly at her sister, then toward Rudolf, who smiled gently into Etta's face. Although she knew Rudolf extended his kindness toward Etta in order to win Rica's favor, she thought now there might be a way to use that kindness.
Giving him her broadest smile, she said, "Perhaps you will sit with us for the entertainment tonight."
Rudolf bowed his golden head. "It would be an honor and
a pleasure."
Rica smiled again and took her sister's hand. "Till later, then."
Out in the passageway, Rica noted Etta's flush. "He is handsome, is he not?" she whispered.
"Yes," Etta whispered, looking with wonder at the hand he had kissed.
Rica hugged her sister. "Come. I will dress your hair with lavender flowers. Tonight, you will be a beauty such has never been seen before."
* * *
The meat was already upon the table before Rica and Etta appeared, and by that time Charles was fuming. The scent of braised pork taunted him with savory fingers, plucking at his belly with teasing temptation. Around him, the faces of other diners were smeared with the grease of the fat, rich cut.
He picked without interest at the broth and bread before him, torn between the bellyache he would face if he indulged his hunger and the deep satisfaction of chewing hard.
So when Rica, then Etta, appeared in the great hall, he frowned. His gaze darted from one to the other. He frowned outright. Rica always led, always. But was that Rica?
For the first time in his life, he could not tell them apart. Both wore richly embroidered surcoats over pale gowns, their identically creamy shoulders displayed. One girl had braided her hair with ribbons, the other had left hers free to tumble in a glory of silver and gold over ripe breasts and graceful arms.
As they took a place at the table, Charles heard the awed stilling of speech that grew below the buzzing of the ladies. Every man in the room had fallen completely, absurdly silent—no doubt, Charles thought grimly, contemplating all manner of ménage à trois with his nubile daughters. Elbowed by wives and nudged along by his own warning glance, the men quickly lit again the flame of chatter.
Charles ate slowly, watching his children. The one with the braid . . . now, that must be Etta, for she was the more modest of the two. That one's gown skimmed the edges of her collarbone, and she wore no bangles about her wrists or waist.
So it was Rica who had left her hair loose save for a small weaving of gillyflowers and lavender, Rica whose womanly curves swelled above a low-cut gown, Rica whose hands made bells ring on her bracelets. He smiled to himself in satisfaction. For though her head was demurely lowered as Rudolf next to her whispered something into her ear, he saw her smile in the strangely ripe way she had, even as a flush stained her cheeks.
A queer release rippled through him. Perhaps there would be no trouble over this betrothal. He'd not even known he was worried until the pair had met in his chamber this afternoon.
What a fine marriage they would make! Both were so strong and fair, and Rica was sturdy, unlike many of her class. She would bear fine sons. Rudolf, in spite of his wearying piety, was healthy, and he carried the blood of the noble Brumaths in his veins.
Charles looked at Etta, sitting quietly. Perhaps there was even hope for this girl. Surely there would be some lad willing to trade her silence for her beauty. Someone gentle but a bit stupid.
He scanned the trestle tables. Ah, he thought, spying the son of a squire—a black-haired youth of some bearing. Hugh was famed for his handling of difficult horses, but even his mother admitted that was the extent of his intelligence.
Charles lifted his cup. Perhaps. There was not only the matter of her silence, however, but that of her virginity. Sobering, he touched his belly, aching now even with the bland food he was allowed.
He must somehow see them both settled before the year was through. Then he could die in peace.
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THE
BLACK
ANGEL
(Excerpt)
by
Barbara Samuel
The St. Ives Family Series - Book One
PROLOGUE
Hyde Park, London
1781
Lady Adriana St. Ives rode well, the result of a childhood spent more savage than civilized. On this dark, wet morning, she rode astride, and rode hard, her hair uncombed and streaming down her back as she raced to beat the dawn threatening at the edge of the horizon. Wet leaves slapped at her face and arms, and her skirts were soaked. Later, she would pay with a fever.
But all that mattered now was that she halt the folly about to take place here, a duel between her brothers and Everett Malvern, Baron of Wye, the King's nephew, and until last week, Adriana's lover.
"Please," she whispered to whatever celestial beings might still be listening to her.
She broke from the trees into a wide, grassy clearing. Relief washed cold down her spine, for they had not yet begun. Her brother Julian, tall as a cedar, his wheat-colored hair shining even in the gloom, stood sober and straight beside a phaeton. Their half brother, Gabriel, as handsome and swarthy as the pirates of their childhood games, stood next to him, the box of pistols in his hands.
Thank God.
She slowed, her breath coming in ragged gasps from her chest. Not even enough air left for a cry.
And then movement from the trees on the opposite side of the clearing caught the edge of her vision and Adriana jerked her head around to see Everett Malvern. The rake was visibly in his cups, weaving as he tossed off his woolen cloak and gestured for his pistol to be put in his hand. The fine satin waistcoat and breeches that had begun the night before in such splendor were now stained with the night's revels, and the elegant, almost pretty face framed with golden curls was decidedly less attractive by the morning light. His sleeves, trimmed with tumbles of Belgian lace, fell over his hands, and he laughed uproariously to his entourage, who only summoned the most polite of chuckles in response. They knew, even if Malvern did not, that he faced a most deadly—and furious—opponent.
Adriana narrowed her eyes. The fool. Only he was arrogant enough to think he'd go unwounded at Julian's hand. His second, a foppish dandy named Stead whom Adriana disliked heartily, plainly understood the danger. He tugged at Malvern's sleeve, his mouth moving with words Adriana could not hear. Malvern shook the hand away and swaggered out to face Julian, who stood cold and still in the midst of the clearing, his dark gold hair glittering with moisture.
Humiliation and anger and regret welled up in Adriana, but there was no time to indulge it. "Wait!" she cried, dismounting, and ran forward.
The men glanced at her, but quickly turned back again, all intent upon this foolish duel. She tried to rush, tripped on her skirts and tumbled in the wet grass. The jolt slammed her teeth together and jarred her entire head.
She scrambled to her feet, putting her hand in a muddy puddle, and stumbled forward.
Too late.
In horror, Adriana halted, tasting blood on her tongue where she'd bitten it. Sweat and cold mist dampened her clothes, and her breath still came raggedly. Hands limp at her sides, she watched them take their paces.
Turn.
And fire.
Involuntarily, she slammed her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes closed. A man cried out in surprise. Her eyes flew open.
Blood bloomed in the shape of a peony over Malvern's chest. Adriana saw the stain leak into the embroidered satin of his waistcoat, spreading like doom, saw the surprise steal away his drunkenness. Abruptly unfrozen, she raced forward and grabbed Julian's arm. "God, Julian, you've killed him! You killed the Duke's bastard."
Julian dropped the pistol, and the icy calm over his face shattered. He raised gray eyes to Adriana's face, and in them she glimpsed misery and resolve. "He'll trouble you no more."
She flung her arms around him, weeping. "I am so ashamed," she whispered against Julian's neck.
Gabriel touched her back, her hair, and she embraced him fiercely. "Take care of him," she whispered, then pulled away. "Now, go. Go!"
Without a word, they turned together, and disappeared into the mist of the dark morning.
Chapter 1
Hartwood Hall, England
1786
Just before the bells awakened her on her wedding day, Lady Adri
ana St. Ives dreamed of her brothers. They rode white horses over a muddy road, and even in the damp, they looked splendidly heroic, one so fair, the other so dark. There was urgency in the air all about them; their hair and cloaks flew, and the horses' hooves kicked up a spray of mud over the men's legs. Firm intent marked their faces.
They were coming. Coming to save her.
Bolting awake, she found herself alone in her cold chamber, blinking at the pale light coming through mullioned windows. Only her own bed. And no sound of horses beyond. She fell back to the pillows, heart pounding, and blinked at the dark-beamed ceiling.
A dream. Only a dream. But after a moment she rose, taking a wrapper from the chair, and padded over to the window to peer out. The grounds of Hartwood Hall spread in wet emerald beauty below a drizzly sky, the leaves of the boxwood glistening along the edge of the road. A road that was empty, as she'd known it would be.
She leaned her forehead against a pane of glass, the improbable hope withering in her breast. It had been almost five years since Julian and Gabriel had fled England after defending her honor, or rather, avenging her shredded pride. She was quite certain they were dead, drowned at sea or captured by Indians or fallen to some exotic fever.
No, there would be no rescue from her brothers, as there had been when they were children, playing pirate in the lush landscape of their father's Martinique estates. But that did not keep her from wishing to be saved.
Shivering a little in the damp, she walked over to her desk and took out her pen, and ink, and a small bound book. She and her sister Cassandra had both acquired the habit of journals, a way to amuse themselves on the long passages between the islands and home. Long, long, long days for children. She began to write:
In an hour, I must allow them to know I have awakened, but this last hour is mine, perhaps the last I can call my own for a good many years. It is, at the outside, the last in which I will be free.
At noon, I am to be married to a man I have never seen, a distant Irish cousin my father thought would make me a suitable husband.
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