If only he had a bit of kindness to spare.
“What?” he said. “No retort?”
She swallowed and forced a calmness that she did not feel. Then she turned to face him.
“My lord,” she said, clasping her hands together. “This is n-not working well. I cannot stay. If—if there is an abbey or nunnery nearby, or a—”
“You wish to leave Norwyck?”
Marguerite cast her eyes toward the floor. “I…I wish only to know who I am, from whence I came. I want to know if the children whose faces I see when I close my eyes are my own. I want to know if the light-haired man in my dreams is my husband.”
“What light-haired man?” Bartholomew growled.
“I dream of him drowning,” she said, her voice trembling and timorous. She turned quickly away so that he would be unable to see the emotion on her face, and composed her voice before speaking again. “We struggle to reach each other in the water, but just as we touch, our hands are wrenched apart. I know that he is desperate to get to—”
“You are no man’s wife,” Bartholomew interrupted abruptly.
Sniffling, she felt anger take over. She whirled to face him. “ Really? And pray, by what method can you tell?”
He grasped her upper arms roughly. “This method.” Scowling, he swooped down and captured her lips in a searing kiss. ’Twas a mating of mouths and teeth and tongue that stole Marguerite’s very breath. Air surged out of her lungs, and fire replaced it.
She had no will or desire to resist him. Her hands found their way to his waist and she held him in place, her body trembling with a raw hunger that seemed so foreign, yet so alarmingly familiar with Bartholomew.
His body was solid and hard, and Marguerite’s excitement grew as he closed the gap between them, making the evidence of his desire plain. At the same time, his tongue swept through her mouth, and she responded with an eagerness that shocked her.
His hands slid across her back. One moved to cup the back of her head, the other swept downward, past her waist to her hips, pressing her against him as he moved.
Marguerite gasped and broke the kiss. Stunned, she looked up into Bartholomew’s eyes as he continued to press his hard length against her. His gaze was hot and knowing. “Have you need of any more proof that you are no man’s wife?” he rasped.
Marguerite whimpered when she felt him move against her again. He pressed his lips to her jaw, trailing hot kisses down her neck to her throat.
“I want you,” he said.
Marguerite shuddered again, worried and very frightened because she wanted him, too. But when his hands moved to span her waist, then traveled up to touch her breasts, she pulled away. She looked wildly about her and remembered they were standing in the chapel. In a church!
She could not find her voice to answer him, and ’twas a good thing, too. For she did not know what words would have come out of her mouth.
She was torn in two. Part of her longed to stay, to explore him in wonderfully wicked ways. The other part knew she could not, should not.
On wobbly legs, she stepped away from him.
When he would have reached for her again, she stopped him. “This is unwise, my lord,” she said shakily, taking another step back.
“Whoever said wisdom was the most prized of virtues?”
Marguerite swallowed. She had no answer for that. She only knew she needed some time and distance in order to determine what to do.
Chapter Seven
Several days passed, with Marguerite coming no closer to discovering who she was. She and Eleanor passed the time with music and sewing. They took long walks in the garden and played games in the courtyard, always staying clear of the castle’s workers.
There was no repetition of the incident with Bartholomew in the chapel, though Marguerite often saw him in the bailey, or on the practice field. He joined the family for meals in the hall whenever he could, and on those occasions, Marguerite felt his hot gaze upon her. He did not return to her chamber in the tower, though Marguerite spent many a restless night trying to forget the smoldering looks he sent her way.
Late one afternoon, as the sun shone brightly over the keep, Marguerite and Eleanor dressed in warm cloaks for a walk in the garden. They were headed in that direction when Eleanor asked for a change in plan.
“May we go and visit Big Symon?” Eleanor asked.
“Only if you promise to stay clear of the workers.”
“Oh, yes!” she cried, taking Marguerite’s hand. “I won’t go near them. I just want to see the new wall and how much more is done!”
They followed the path and left the castle proper, then walked on until they reached the edge of the village. Men were laying stone and mixing mortar, just as they’d done the one other time Marguerite and Eleanor had visited the site. Marguerite kept Eleanor’s hand in her own, steering her far from the wagons full of stones, and away from the piles of rock stacked upon the ground.
She did not want to deal with any near disasters today.
As they walked around, looking at the wall, men doffed their hats in respect and went on with their work. Big Symon was atop the wall, and he gave them a friendly wave.
“There ye are, m’little lady,” said a gruff voice behind them.
“Master Alrick!” Eleanor cried, clearly delighted to see the old fellow. His lined face was framed by wispy gray hair, and his small eyes sparkled with intelligence.
“And what’s this?” Alrick asked. “A ribbon in yer ear?”
Using sleight of hand, he seemed to pull a ribbon from Eleanor’s ear. Eleanor shrieked with glee while the man’s blue eyes twinkled gaily.
“Do another!”
“Well, I’m not so sure as I know another,” he said. But as he spoke, he took a rope from his pocket, circled Eleanor’s waist with it and tied it securely. He glanced up at Marguerite and winked at her, then looked back at Eleanor. “Try to pull it loose,” he said.
The girl tugged, but naught happened.
“Aw, m’little princess,” he said, taking hold of the knot. “Ye should do better than that!” And the rope fell away, as if it had not been tied.
Marguerite could not tell how he’d done it, but the trick had delighted Eleanor, and ’twas obvious that Master Alrick had often entertained the child with his sleight of hand.
“More!”
“Alas, m’lady,” Alrick said, removing his cap and bowing deeply, “I must get back to work, or Master Symon will surely have my hide.”
“Oh, but—”
“We thank you for your time, Master Alrick,” Marguerite said, taking Eleanor’s hand. “And for showing us your extraordinary talents.”
Alrick bowed again. “’Twas my pleasure, m’lady.” Then he left them to join the men working on the wall.
“Have you seen enough?” Marguerite asked Eleanor.
“Nay!” she cried. “Mightn’t we walk to the other side of the wall? See how ’twill look to the Armstrongs when they come raiding?”
“Eleanor—”
“Please, Lady Marguerite!” the child said, pulling on her hand. “We will not go far beyond, just around to the outside. And ’tis daylight. Naught will happen.”
Marguerite had to agree with her. The castle and village were on high ground, and the Armstrongs would be hard-pressed to get away with an attack now, in daylight, with so many Norwyck men around.
They walked to the end of the wall, then went around to the north side of it, leaving the enclosure. Hills sloped away from the village and castle, blending into more hills beyond the dell at the bottom. Marguerite knew the North Sea lay to her right, at the far end of the castle, though she could not see it from here.
’Twas a pretty setting, and when they walked a short distance down the hill and looked up at the castle, she was struck by its towering majesty. Norwyck was a magnificent stronghold.
“Look! ’Tis Bartie!” Eleanor cried.
Marguerite turned around and saw riders in the valley below. They wer
e knights in dark hauberks, riding powerful warhorses, with their swords at their sides. One of the knights carried the Norwyck banner, bearing the shape of a blue lion on a white background.
Several men herded cattle behind the line of knights. Marguerite put one hand up to shade her eyes and saw that there were more men, much farther behind, herding sheep. She returned her gaze to the horsemen up ahead, who had turned to follow a winding path up the hill to the castle. Eleanor was right. Bartholomew was in the lead.
Marguerite tamped down her feelings of excitement when she saw him, and composed herself. She had striven to conceal his potent effect on her, and had no intention of letting him see it now.
“He is even more handsome than William ever was,” Eleanor said wistfully. “I hope he finds me a husband just like—”
“Who is William?”
“Our eldest brother,” Eleanor said. “We never speak of him…at least, not aloud. It makes everyone too sad.”
“I’m sorry,” Marguerite said. “What…happened to him?”
“The Armstrong killed him when Felicia lured him away from the castle.”
“Felicia?” Marguerite asked, frowning. “Bartholomew’s wife?”
“Aye,” Eleanor replied. “Bartie was really angry with her. He said that Will would never have gone down to the valley unless Felicia had needed his help.”
This was hardly an adequate explanation, but Marguerite could get no more from the child before Bartholomew and his men arrived at the wall. All of them appeared battle-weary, and many of the men were wounded. Bartholomew motioned his knights to ride ahead, then stopped and dismounted near Eleanor and Marguerite.
He was covered with grime, his hair slicked back with sweat. His hauberk accentuated the strong planes of his chest and shoulders, and the narrow span of his hips and waist. Weary lines settled across his face, but the light of victory shone brightly in his eyes.
“Bartie!” Eleanor cried as she wrapped her arms around his legs. “Did you go raiding the Armstrongs?”
“We only brought back what was ours. What are you doing so far from the castle?” he demanded, peeling her off.
“We came to see the wall,” she replied, sensing a jovial mood beneath his stern mien. “But we went no farther.”
“See that you don’t,” he replied, lifting the child into his arms. “I would not wish to lose you, even if you are an imp and a troublemaker.”
“Put me down, Bartie,” Eleanor protested, squirming. “You are sweaty and smelly.”
Bartholomew laughed, warming Marguerite’s heart with the rich, deep sound. She realized she’d never heard him laugh, and had barely even seen him smile.
And she was afraid. This different, lighthearted Bartholomew had a better chance of seducing her than the stern, passionate one.
“Nay, wench,” he said, tossing his petite sister up onto his shoulders. Her legs straddled his brawny neck, while she laughed with delight. “You must suffer the brute who risks life and limb to keep you safe! Is that not so, Lady Marguerite?” he asked, spearing her with his dark gaze.
“Eleanor does not appear to be suffering, my lord,” she said, ignoring the double entendre.
“Ah, but does she appreciate the finer qualities of her lord and protector?” he asked as he gathered the reins of his mighty warhorse in one hand, keeping the other upon Eleanor’s wool-clad legs.
“Mayhap she does, my lord,” Marguerite said, falling into step next to him, “but has not yet found an appropriate way to express it.”
“Yes I can!” Eleanor said, giggling. She leaned over and put her fingers across her brother’s eyes. “You are a loggerhead, Bartie!”
’Twas so unexpected that Marguerite laughed aloud, while Bartholomew sputtered with feigned indignation. This was a side of Bartholomew that was so utterly charming, Marguerite had to turn away or be completely taken in by his appealing manner.
He was jolly and playful with his sister, and for a moment Marguerite could see the boy he must have been, before war and betrayal and tragedy had struck Norwyck. She wondered about Eleanor’s earlier words. What exactly had Felicia done?
Marguerite could hardly credit that Bartholomew’s wife would betray him with another man. And cause his brother’s death.
What kind of charlatan had the woman been?
What kind of fool?
If the child’s stories were to be believed, then ’twas no wonder Bartholomew was distrustful, especially of women. Marguerite doubted she would learn any more from Eleanor, for the child knew only what she’d overheard. By the very nature of the betrayals, Marguerite was certain the adults had kept much from her.
Still, Eleanor was not one to let much get past her. Marguerite could imagine the child listening at keyholes or hiding behind furniture to discover all she could. Mayhap she could get a bit more from Eleanor if she asked the right questions.
A loud crack, then an earthshaking rumble and the sound of men’s panicked voices cut through the air. Marguerite turned toward the wall in time to watch in horror as the last section of it came crashing down, rocks and mortar, dust and men.
Bartholomew acted quickly. He swung Eleanor down to the ground and tossed the reins to Marguerite. “Tether him,” he said as he took off at a trot toward the fallen men.
Eleanor followed her brother, while Marguerite looked for a post or a tree to which she could tie the huge beast. When she’d secured the animal, she went after Eleanor.
They did not need another disaster.
Bart sent a man to fetch the healer, then knelt over Big Symon, whose body lay inert and unconscious upon the ground. His leg was quite obviously broken, but there were other injuries, too.
“M’lord, we should get him home!”
“Nay, do not move him,” he replied. “Not until Alice Hoget looks at him.”
“Aye, ’tis wise, m’lord,” said another man.
A soft, feminine form was suddenly beside him, with her thick, woolen cloak in her hands. She covered Symon with it, smoothing it over his body and tucking the ends under him to keep him warm.
Bart looked up at her, but she kept her eyes upon the injured man. They showed naught but fear and concern for his recovery. Her hands were so small, so smooth. Yet they moved with care and efficiency.
“B-Bartie?” Eleanor said. Her face was pale and her eyes shimmered with tears. “Is he…dead?”
“Nay, Ellie,” Bart replied, taking her into his arms. “But he’s in bad shape. Alice will come and do what she can for him. Then we’ll…we’ll just have to pray for his recovery.”
Bart felt shaken himself. The work on the wall had been going so well, with their main problem being that of supplies. Symon had had to send men farther and farther afield to collect the large rocks that made up the wall, and lately there’d been arguments between the reeve and the bailiff over the mixture used for the mortar.
Bart glanced at Marguerite and saw her brushing away her own tears furtively. She stood abruptly, sniffed and walked toward another of the fallen men, whose forehead was bleeding.
She crouched down and spoke quietly to the fellow, putting one hand on his arm, then spoke to an uninjured man standing nearby. He quickly brought Marguerite a wet cloth, and she mopped the blood from the deep cut on the injured man’s forehead. The fellow blushed with all the attention being given him by the beautiful lady, but Marguerite’s straightforward attitude prevented any real embarrassment.
Her hair, at first covered by the hood of her cloak, was now loose. Time seemed to stand still as Bart watched her slip one fine lock of that rich mass of honey-brown over her ear. He could think of naught but the taste of her skin below that ear, her scent when he aroused her with his kisses.
Stifling his own groan, Bart turned his attention to Symon’s moan of pain. He thought it a good sign that the man was coming ’round, even though the leg was in bad shape. Alice would know what to do.
“Symon?” Bart asked.
“Aye,” the big man growle
d. “What’s happened?”
“The wall collapsed. You and several others fell,” Bart replied.
Symon grimaced in pain when he tried to move. “M’lord, is there something sharp poking into m’leg?”
“Nay, man,” Bartholomew replied. “’Tis broken. You broke it when you fell.”
The color drained from his face, even from his lips, and Bart knew what was coming. “Ellie, go and stay with Lady Marguerite,” he said as he gently shoved her away. He quickly turned Symon’s head so the man could vomit without choking.
“Tsk, tsk, Symon Michaelson,” said a female voice. “What have you gone and done to yer leg.”
’Twas Alice Hoget, with her satchel of herbs and potions. Bartholomew could not have been happier to see any woman.
But with that thought, he glanced toward the place where Marguerite had been, and discovered that she and Ellie were no longer there. Frowning, he looked around and saw that she now stood next to the mountain of rubble that had once been Norwyck’s wall.
She suddenly dropped down to her knees and frantically began to throw rocks from the pile. At the same time, she cried out, “Lord Norwyck! Someone! Come help!”
Leaving Symon in Alice’s capable hands, he hurried to the place where Marguerite knelt.
“’Tis Alrick!” she cried when Bart got near. “He’s under all this rubble!”
He saw the old man now, most of him crushed under a ton of rock and mortar, heard his moan. Calling for more assistance, Bart wasted no time in moving in beside Marguerite and hauling debris off the fallen man, while Eleanor stood crying beside them.
“Hold on, Alrick,” he said. “We’ll get you out….”
Others joined the rescue effort and soon the man was free, though his body lay battered and broken upon the shattered rocks. His breaths were shallow and rattling. Blood and bruises covered him, and he was unconscious.
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