Halloween Knight

by Tori Phillips

  Belle gripped his shoulders, nipped the smooth skin at the base of his neck and begged him never to stop. He increased his tempo. Whimpering, she felt as if he lifted her above the earth, higher and higher until the sun’s rays burnished her. A sudden explosion of fire and ice hurled her beyond the stars and returned her to earth on a golden cloud of warmth and peace.

  Mark chuckled in her ear. “Tell me, sweet, did Cuthbert ever pleasure you like this?”

  Belle opened her eyes. “Nay,” she gasped. “I had no idea of such joy. Please, Marcus, take me to paradise again.”

  He lowered himself between her open legs. “Let us go together. I promise to be as gentle as I can, but tis been a long time for me.”

  Belle wrapped her legs around his hips. “Tis been a lifetime of waiting for me.”

  He slid into her as a sword into its own sheath. Belle welcomed him with kisses and clung to him as if her life depended upon only this moment. Together they ascended to the fiery firmament where they hung for a delicious, heart-stopping instant before the world about them flew apart in a blinding array of lights and colors. With deep soul-felt sighs, they descended once again to open their eyes and greet each other as if they had never before truly met.

  Tears, great gushing droplets, rolled down Belle’s cheeks. Mark cradled her close to his chest. His beating heart drummed in her ear.

  “Did I hurt you, my sweet?” he asked in a husky voice. “I did not mean—”

  She placed her fingers over his mouth to still his words. “N-nay, Marcus, I am f-fine.” She sobbed all the more.

  “Tush, tush, ma petite chou-chou. What is it?”

  Belle mutely shook her head even as her tears bathed his shoulder. She had no clear idea why she cried, only that it gave her a great sense of release, as if a massive weight had been lifted from her heart. Mark rocked her in his arms and soothed her with soft noises and gentle kisses. As her racking sobs grew quieter, he drew the blankets over their cooling bodies. Belle fell asleep nestled in the comfort of his embrace.

  For once she did not dream at all.

  Mark awoke slowly, suffused with a sense of wellbeing. The fire had gone out and the window framed the gray pre-dawn. Light rain pattered on the glass panes. The unwelcome sound brought him back to reality. Today was October thirty-first, All Hallows Eve, and the deuced rain still poured from the heavens.

  He gazed down at the woman he held in his arms. A little trail of salt on Belle’s cheek was all that remained of her tears. Mark brushed the evidence away with the pad of his thumb. She stirred in her sleep.

  Her tears had disturbed him more than he had expected. Women had cried in his arms before. Past experience had taught him not to question the reason, but only to offer the comfort of his shoulder. Belle’s tears were a far different matter. She had never cried, not even when he had extracted a three-inch thorn from her leg when she was six or seven. Belle took pride in her hard exterior. Tears were for babes, she once told him. She maintained that she had cried her fill in France.

  This morning in the stillness of her sleep, Belle looked softer—and more vulnerable than ever. A wave of fierce protection surged through him. The activities of the coming night would require all the courage that Belle and Mark could muster. He prayed that he would not let her down—especially not now.

  He had to leave her, but he was loath to slide away from her side without a sound. Only a churl would take his pleasure then disappear. Mark kissed Belle’s forehead.

  “Good morrow, chou-chou,” he whispered in her ear.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Tis still night,” she replied without opening her eyes.

  He kissed her again. Sdeath! He wished he could spend the whole wet day in her warm bed. “Nay, sweetheart. The cock will soon crow.”

  She snuggled closer to him. “Tis the owl you hear,” she mumbled into the pillow.

  Mark grinned. Belle had never liked the earliest hours of the day. “I must leave you and prepare for battle,” he said, shaking her shoulder. He dropped a kiss on the spot.

  “We are not at war,” she muttered, throwing the covers over her head.

  Mark sighed. “That remains to be seen.”

  He pulled on his hose, then his shirt. When he turned to step into his breeches he saw that Belle watched him from her nest amid the bedclothes. He winked at her. “Have no fear, chou-chou. By this time tomorrow, Mortimer Fletcher will be scurrying back to his lair in London with the brittle Griselda right behind him.”

  Pulling herself into a sitting position with the blanket tucked under her arms, Belle rubbed the side of her nose. Her delicate brows creased with worry. “He may not,” she said in a flat tone.

  Mark sat down beside her and gathered her in his arms. “Then I will chase him across the drawbridge at the point of my sword.”

  Belle studied his face for a moment, then stroked his cheek. “You always did charge off where angels feared to tread, but not this time, methinks.”

  He planted a kiss on the soft skin of her palm. “Do you doubt my resolve? Look at me. I am as hare-brained as ever.”

  Her faint smile held a touch of sadness. “Nay, tis I who have been the hare-brained one—as usual. I fear I have endangered you as well as my little brother and Jobe because of my hard-headed foolishness. I should have let you carry me away that first night.”

  Mark rolled his eyes with mock exasperation. “Now you tell me?”

  She caught his hands in hers. “The time for jesting has passed, Mark. If we fail tonight….” She swallowed.

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “Screw up your courage, chou-chou. We will not fail.”

  Belle gripped his hands tighter. “Nay, Mark, listen to me. If Mortimer refuses to budge, though we surround him with the denizens of hell itself, then let us quit this place and return to my father with all speed.”

  Mark whistled under his breath. “You would give up your home to that onion-eyed rabbit-sucker?”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth before she nodded. “My selfish whim has put you in danger, mayhap more than we realize. Please, promise me if something goes amiss, do not tarry but fly. We will find another way to win this game.” She kissed his hands. “I would not have you harmed on my account. My stubbornness has hurt you enough as it is.”

  Mark smiled at her; laughter bubbled up in his throat. “I thank you for your concern for my life and limbs, but I am so deep in this tomfoolery now that I have no desire to run—especially not from such a weasel as Mortimer Fletcher. Fear not. All will be well.” He eased her back into the pillows. “Methinks you need a wee bit more sleep, sweet slugabed. Then you will feel like your old self.”

  Still chuckling, he rose and put on his doublet. Then he threw her a kiss. “Heigh ho, sweetheart! As Jobe says, tonight will be most excellent sport. Adieu until we meet after dark.” His gaze drank up her love-tousled looks. “Great Jove, Belle! You are the true treasure of Bodiam Castle.”

  “Mark!” She held out her arms to him. “I…that is…”

  He gripped the door latch. He had to leave her now or he knew he would be back in her bed in an instant. His loins ached for a rematch. He wrenched open the door. Dexter marched inside with his tail held high. Looking neither left nor right, he crossed the floor and leapt onto the bed. He circled several times before curling himself up next to Belle. Mark glowered at the fat creature.

  Enjoy your ease now, cat. The day is coming when you will be out—permanently.

  Mark slipped down the west gallery and into the south wing without detection. He considered that a good omen for the day. By the time he reached his own chamber, the damp dawn had broken. Kitt snored on his pallet. With a grin, Mark rumpled the bedclothes on the large four-poster to allay the boy’s prying questions. Kitt did not need to know all of his master’s nocturnal activities. He stripped off his clothing before awakening his squire.

  “Get up and face the new morn!” He yanked the blankets off the boy. “Tis All Hallows Eve! Where are my raz
or and soap? Where is my hot water? Where is my morning strop of ale to cheer me?”

  Kitt stumbled to his feet with a choice oath. Mark cocked his eyebrow. “Hoy day, my lad! If your lady mother ever hears that sweet word on your tongue, you will be eating soap for a month.”

  Kitt yawned as he struggled into his clothing. Without another word, he slammed out of the room to fetch the required ale and water. Mark laughed. Great Jove! He felt new-made this fine morning. Kneeling beside the clothes trunk, he inspected his wardrobe for the day. His hand chanced to brush against a folded piece of paper. Mark lifted it up to the window for closer inspection. He grimaced when he realized he held his betrothal contract to Griselda, still unsigned. He balled it up and almost hurled it into the cold fireplace when a thought struck him.

  Though Mark did not give much credence to Belle’s fresh worry, he had to admit she might have a point. They needed a second line of defense if Mortimer proved more obstinate than Mark expected. He considered the paper in his hand. Amended slightly, this document could be the perfect answer. All Mark had to do was sign his name.

  Kitt reappeared in a slightly better mood. Mark took a deep drink of the ale, wiped the froth from his lips, then remarked, “We burn daylight.”

  “Tis barely six o’ the clock,” the boy observed, stropping Mark’s razor on a piece of thick leather.

  Mark lathered his face with a small slice of soap. “Just so. Time enough for you to find pen and ink.”

  Kitt shook out Mark’s discarded doublet. “Whyfor? Look you, did you know you are missing two buttons?”

  Mark snapped his fingers. “A fig for the buttons! Tis pen and ink I require.”

  “Where should I find such items at this ungodly hour?”

  Mark shaved one cheek before answering. “A good squire uses his wits. Be creative.” He shaved his other cheek.

  Kitt pursed his lips. “You mean steal them from Master Fletcher’s office?”

  Mark shot him a reproachful look. “Did I say ‘steal’? Would I lead my good squire down the rosy path of wrongdoing?”

  Kitt grinned. “Aye, you would.”

  Mark leaned closer to his looking glass and prepared to shave under his chin. “Don’t get caught,” he advised.

  By the time Kitt returned with the purloined items, Mark had dressed in plain garb. He had much work to do and he had to save his best clothes for the feast tonight. While Kitt busied himself with emptying the water down the privy hole, tidying the beds and brushing their boots, Mark settled on the windowseat. He scratched out several words on Mortimer’s contract with the tip of his penknife. Taking a deep breath, he inserted the words that could change his life forever. If nothing else, they would guarantee that Belle’s beloved home would always remain hers. When he finished, he waved the paper in the air to dry the ink.

  “Kitt, my boy, tis time you and I had a serious talk, man-to-man.”

  The squire paused in the midst of his chores and grinned. “Tis no matter, Mark. Jobe told me all I need to know.”

  Mark stopped waving the document. “How now? What did he say, pray tell?”

  Kitt attempted to look worldly-wise. “Oh, you know. The things a man must do to pleasure a woman,” he replied in an offhand manner. “The little tricks of this and that,” he added.

  Caught unawares, Mark didn’t know whether to laugh or to swear. Lady Kat would die of shock if she knew the full extent of her precious son’s education. “By any chance, did you two discuss the morality of the act of love?”

  Kitt thought about it for a moment then shrugged. “I cannot recall.”

  Mark blew out his cheeks. “When time and leisure present themselves, you and I will speak further on this subject. In the meantime, do not practice your new wiles on young Ivy.”

  Kitt turned bright red to the roots of his golden hair. “I never gave it a thought.”

  Little liar! Mark cleared his throat. “Tis a legal matter I must discuss with you as you are the only male member of the Cavendish family within a hundred miles.”

  Kitt squared his slim shoulders and assumed an air of grave attention. “Tis true. I am.”

  Mark’s palms sweated. He wiped them on his breeches before the moisture blotted the paper he held out to the boy. “Read this carefully. If you agree to the terms, then sign it at the bottom and write the word guardian after your name.”

  Mark pretended to inspect his fingernails while Kitt worked his way through the densely written verbiage. He drummed his fingers on the windowsill. He rubbed the back of his neck. He felt like a man awaiting the verdict of a jury.

  Tis nothing but a piece of paper and only for use in an extreme emergency. The thought gave him cold comfort.

  Kitt’s eyes bulged. “You mean this?”

  Mark attempted a weak smile. “Every jot and tittle. Tis to insure Belle’s future. Will you sign it?”

  The boy giggled. “With a right good will.” He scrawled Christopher Cavendish, Guardian with a flourish across the bottom. Then he returned the quill to Mark.

  The feather trembled in Mark’s fingers as he dipped the pen into the inkpot. A mere stroke or two and tis done—tis merely a precaution. He swallowed hard, then signed and backdated the contract. He blew gently on the wet letters. “Tis done,” he said in a weak voice.

  When the ink had dried, Mark refolded the paper and held it out to Kitt. “On your honor and your life, I entrust this to your safekeeping. Use it only if and when the situation proves necessary.”

  “How will I know?”

  Mark turned away from him. “Your instincts will tell you.”

  Kitt straightened himself with a new-found dignity. He took the paper and thrust it deep in the suede pouch that he wore on his belt. “I will wrap it in oilcloth and seal the seams with wax straightway. I will not fail you, my lord,” he replied with surprising maturity.

  Was I ever that young? Mark wondered.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mortimer limped into the great hall and glared balefully at the preparations for the evening’s festivities. His leg still hurt from the wretched cat’s fangs. His pain and the clammy cold weather put him in a foul humor. In the midst of a flock of temporary servants, Griselda glowed. For the first time in her life, she had the opportunity to command a small army to obey her every whim. Mortimer squinted at the bustling potboys and maids. Where had all these people come from? He ground his teeth. This cleansing of the castle’s demons had already cost him a small fortune and Griselda showed no signs of curbing her expenditures now. He pitied Lord Hayward.

  Mortimer studied his future brother-in-law. Something about the man disturbed him. Though he knew they had never met, Mortimer thought he had heard his name some time in the past. Perchance Cuthbert had known him during the boy’s short tenure amid the glittering nobility of the king’s court. Strange, Sir Mark had never mentioned any former knowledge of the Fletchers.

  Griselda pretended to wobble at the top of a small ladder and her betrothed obligingly caught her. She screamed her laughter and Hayward smiled in return.

  That rogue is too handsome. Why would a titled gentleman seek marriage with the daughter of a wool merchant—particularly one who is a shrew?

  That question had nagged Mortimer ever since Sir Mark had arrived out of the clear blue. Something didn’t seem to fit, though Mortimer could not put his finger on the cause of his misgivings. No matter, he told himself. The betrothal would be announced tonight and the first banns published on Sunday. Griselda would become Lady Hayward within a month. Then Mortimer recalled that he had not yet received Sir Mark’s signed contract. He limped toward the couple.

  “La,” screeched Griselda, spying her brother. “Here comes a sad-faced shadow. By my troth, Mortimer. Try to smile for once. I am to be a bride after all. That thought should fill you full of joy.” She cast a fond glance at the tall man beside her. “Is that not so, my love?’

  Sir Mark laughed easily—too easily. “Spoken truly, my sweet-tongued hawthorn-bud.
”

  Mortimer lifted a corner of his mouth in an approximation of a smile. “A word in your ear, my lord,” he muttered.

  Griselda linked her arm around Hayward’s. “What pressing business could you possibly have with my darling Mark when I need his full attention here? Our guests will be upon us before you know it and—”

  “Peace, Griselda!” her brother snapped. “Tis a man’s conference I desire and twill take less time to accomplish than your protestations against it. Come, my lord.” He limped toward his office.

  Mark untangled himself from Griselda’s clutches and kissed her chapped hand. “I shall return to your side in a twink, you saucy wafer-cake.”

  Griselda brayed like a jackass before she turned back to her task. Mortimer rolled his eyes heavenward and prayed that this day would end soon. He hated having all these strangers inside his domain. He slammed his door behind Sir Mark, then eased himself into his chair without offering his noble guest a seat. Sir Mark lounged against the wall by the narrow window that overlooked the moat.

  Mortimer made a show of riffling through his papers. “I fear I cannot find the marriage contract that I gave you the other day, my lord. Methinks it must still be in your possession.”

  Sir Mark whistled his surprise. “Is that so? Methinks I put it on your desk yesterday—or was it the day before? Surely you have not misplaced it?” He eyed the piles of correspondence and accounts on the table. “Have you closely examined all those papers, Master Fletcher? Perchance it has slipped within the leaves of a ledger?”

  Mortimer opened his mouth, then shut it again. Best not to ruffle this man’s feathers until after he was safely wedded to Griselda. He snatched up the topmost book and flipped through its pages. Nothing. Mark yawned, covering his mouth. Mortimer ruffled through the second book. Again, nothing. This was such a farce. Mortimer was sure Lord Hayward had not returned the document. He shook a third book. A folded sheet fell out.

  The nobleman smiled. “Ah, I see you have found it.”

  Mortimer doubted that. This paper was not as thick nor as well made as the stock he used for his contracts and deeds. He opened it. The words on the page caused him to quake. Written in red ink—or could it be blood?—the ominous message read: “Your sands of time will run out on All Hallows Eve. Prepare to meet your doom. Written by the hand of her whom you have sorely wronged, LaBelle Cavendish.”