“Does anyone know a song?” Marguerite asked the children, while keeping an eye on Anne and the bairn.
Six frightened little pairs of eyes gazed up at her, and her heart nearly melted at their looks of dread.
“Come,” she said. “Let’s get your pallets ready for sleep.” They went without protest to the cupboard where their blankets and straw mattresses were kept, and took them out. Spreading them on the floor near the fire, Marguerite began to hum a tune as she tucked the children into their beds.
Soon, a few of the words came to her and she added them to her song. The children joined in, one voice at a time, until they were all singing quietly together. When Marguerite saw that Anne had finished feeding the bairn, she took him from his mother’s arms and sat down among the rest of the children and finished the song.
Anne remained sitting listlessly in her chair, but there was naught Marguerite could do for her now. She just wanted to get the children calmed and settled. Then she would do what she could for their mother.
She began to sing again.
“Lanquand li jorn son lonc en mai
m’es bels douz chans d’auzels de loing…”
Little Abby slipped out from under her blanket and, with her thumb stuck firmly in her mouth, crawled over her brothers and sisters to get to Marguerite’s lap. Marguerite rearranged the bairn in her arms to make space for the little girl while she continued to sing.
“e quand me suis partitz de lai
remembra-m d’un’amor de loing.”
The children were all dark-haired like their parents, and had deep brown eyes, so their looks were quite different from the children Marguerite “remembered.” Yet the feelings they evoked were the same. She felt calm and centered here among the little ones, even though she did not truly belong.
She continued singing quietly, and wished she had Lady Norwyck’s gittern. Mayhap on the morrow she would bring it to Symon’s cottage and play for the children.
Anne was certain to need help with them then.
Marguerite wondered if Symon’s wife would ever manage to calm herself enough to take care of him. ’Twould take a great deal of patience and skill over many weeks to deal with Symon’s injuries. Even then, he might end up crippled, after all.
Marguerite looked at the five children lying in their beds, and the two little ones in her arms. How would they ever manage then?
It had been hours since Marguerite’s disappearance. Bartholomew’s knights had spread out to search, scouring the courtyards and gardens, looking in every building within the castle walls. Bart had even led a party of men out to the beach and up into the hills to hunt for her, fairly certain that the woman had fled Norwyck when the opportunity had presented itself.
His anger at her flight was deep and sharp.
“My lord,” Sir Walter said as Bart rode into the courtyard and dismounted. “Any luck?”
“Nay.” The word was clipped.
“Mayhap she is—”
“She is no longer my concern,” Bart said, closing off any further discussion of her. In another hour, he would recall his men from the search. “What have you heard of Alrick Stickle and the others?”
“Alrick’s condition is dire, but at least Symon Michaelson holds his own, my lord,” Walter said. If his speech was clipped, ’twas not for Bart to notice. “I was just about to take these parcels out to the injured men’s families.”
Bart looked at the satchels on the ground behind Walter. They were packed with foodstuffs and other essentials. “I’ll take them,” he said, bending down to pick up the two heaviest. “Who gets what?”
Walter answered the question as Bart put the packs on his horse. When all was ready, he remounted.
“My lord…”
Bart turned back and looked impatiently at the old knight.
“Mayhap…I believe ’tis possible you’ve misjudged Lady Marguerite.”
Bart sat quietly for a moment before speaking. “’Tis no matter now. She was a stranger when she arrived, and still a stranger when she left. She took naught with her but Eleanor’s affection.”
If Sir Walter replied, Bart did not hear it, but turned his horse and rode toward the village, forcibly banishing all thoughts of Marguerite from his mind. He did not care to hear whatever the man had to say in her favor.
He stopped in the cottages of the injured men, carrying the goods into each house, staying to visit each family. The lady of the estate should have been the one to handle these visitations, but there was no lady. Nor would there be one until Hal took a wife. Mayhap his sisters would fill the void until then, since each one was so keen to act the chatelaine.
When he reached Alrick’s cottage, he found the man’s wife sitting next to his bed, and Alice Hoget hovering over him. Norwyck’s priest sat alongside her.
Alice looked up at Bart and shook her head, and he knew then that Alrick would not survive. Bart thought of all the years the man had entertained the children, even himself as a child, and knew his jovial presence would be sorely missed.
Bartholomew spoke a few words of comfort to Alrick’s wife, then took his leave. He had one more cottage to visit.
“Coming to see Master Symon, are ye, m’lord?” Alice asked, catching up to him as he untied his horse.
“Aye,” Bart replied. “How is he?”
“The leg is set,” she said simply. “And his wife is fraught with worry. I’ve got a couple of girls to come help her with the children, but I’ll walk with ye now and look in on him before I go home.”
Bart remembered Anne’s reaction to her husband’s injury and wondered if the woman had gathered her wits since he’d last seen her. He could not blame her for being distraught. As he recalled, Symon had a number of young children. The prospect of a crippled husband, with so many mouths to feed, would be daunting.
Bart tied his horse and gathered the parcels for Symon’s family, then followed Alice as she pushed through the cottage door. All was quiet in the darkened room, but for the sound of a clear, rich feminine voice raised in song. As Bart turned and latched the door against a wintry wind, the song abruptly stopped. He looked up.
’Twas Marguerite!
His muscles froze in place at the sight of her here, sitting unharmed among Symon’s children.
As though he and his men had not spent the last several hours searching for her.
How long had she been here? Did she have any idea how he’d worried? How he’d searched in vain? He cracked his knuckles and made a conscious effort to unclench his teeth. He did not know whether to throttle her or take her in his arms and clasp her to him so that she might never again leave his sight.
Mayhap he should do both.
Chapter Nine
“Ah, ’tis good that ye stayed, m’lady,” Alice said to Marguerite as she picked up the lamp from the table. “Mistress Anne is in no condition tonight to manage on her own.”
“’Twas a pleasure to help with the children,” Marguerite replied. “And since there was naught to do for Alrick’s wife…” Her voice was rich and clear, and caused the kind of reaction that was becoming all too familiar to Bart. Need…acute need, combined with some odd sensation he did not recognize.
The sight of her soft lips nuzzling the dark-haired bairn in her arms made his mouth go dry. The vision of her delicate hands stroking the tiny child’s back sent a stab of longing through him that was strong enough to make him stagger. Bart had no trouble imagining Marguerite bearing his own dark-haired child.
He dragged one hand across his mouth and jaw and turned away. How absurd.
“Ah, Annie girl,” Alice said, giving Bart a much-needed excuse to turn his attention elsewhere. “ Do take a seat, if ye please. Yer makin’ me dizzy with all yer pacing.”
Mistress Anne sat herself down on a chair next to her husband’s bed and chewed a corner of her lip. Her hands pulled nervously at her apron. It made Bart uncomfortable just to watch her, though ’twas better than torturing himself with visions of Marg
uerite.
It annoyed him to know that his anger was misplaced. The lady had spent the evening helping the people of the village—his people—while he was out looking to prove a point. He had intended to discredit her once he found her fleeing into the hills.
He’d been an ass.
And he still wanted her. Mayhap even more than before. His anger cooled as reason set in again, along with a severe case of lust.
The cottage was fairly spacious, though with seven children and three extra adults, the quarters were cramped. Intentionally avoiding Marguerite’s eyes, Bart stepped over the children’s pallets and went to Symon’s bedside.
The man was insensible. His broken leg was swollen and blue, and tightly bound to two straight boards. It did not look good. Grimacing, Bart glanced up at Alice. “Will this heal?” he asked.
Alice raised her eyebrows and shrugged, clearly unwilling to speak frankly with Symon’s fragile wife so near. “Who can say how the bone will mend?” she said. “Time will tell, m’lord.”
“Aye, but do you think…” he began, but one look at Anne’s anxious face and he changed the question. “Do you think he’ll feel better on the morrow?”
“Nay,” Alice replied. “He’s likely to feel worse.”
A sudden, piercing wail broke the quiet of the room. Bart turned and saw that the bairn in Marguerite’s arms was restless. She was attempting to quiet him, but her movements were hampered by the little girl slumbering in her lap. Unless she moved the older child, she would not be able to comfort the babe.
Alice was occupied with frowning and looking under Symon’s eyelids, while Mistress Anne hugged her arms about herself and anxiously watched every move Alice made.
Seeing no alternative, Bart stepped over the children and crouched before Marguerite. Without speaking, he carefully lifted the little girl, brushing his hands against Marguerite’s legs in the process.
A shudder ran through her, and her eyes closed. In that moment, Bart did not doubt that he would soon linger there, touching her as intimately as a man could touch a woman. And ’twould give them both pleasure.
He swallowed hard and turned his attention to Symon’s little daughter, carrying her to the only vacant pallet, gently placing her on it and covering her with her woolen blanket. As the little girl stuck her thumb in her mouth he heard Marguerite rise behind him and start to pace as she sang quietly to the bairn.
Marguerite moved around enough to calm the infant, and managed to keep her distance from him. Still, her hushed song penetrated the quiet and he clearly heard the French words that she sang.
“Let me take him, m’lady,” Alice said, stepping away from Symon’s bed. “Ye look fair spent, if ye don’t mind my saying.”
“Oh, but I—”
“Ye’ve got dark circles under yer eyes, and yer just out of bed from near drowning,” Alice countered, taking the babe from Marguerite. “Take her back to the keep, m’lord. She needs her own bed tonight. I’ve got Judith Atwood’s daughters coming to help Annie. There’s no more either of ye can do here before the morn.”
The old healer was right. Whatever Marguerite had been doing since leaving him in the courtyard, it had wearied her. Bart glanced at Marguerite, his eyes meeting hers, and felt a tenderness that made him uneasy. She looked away shyly.
“Go on with ye, now,” Alice said, fairly shooing them from the house. “All’s as well as it can be here.”
Bart reached across several sleeping bodies and offered his hand to Marguerite. “My lady?” he said, more gruffly than he intended. ’Twas not easy, knowing how wrong he’d been about her.
Marguerite hesitated only an instant, then took his hand and stepped over the children. ’Twas but a moment more before they reached the door. Bart spotted her cloak hanging on a hook, and had just begun to help her with it when there was a light tap at the door. Expecting the Atwood girls, he was surprised to discover ’twas the knight he’d left in charge of the search for Marguerite.
“My lord,” he said, gesturing toward Bart’s horse tethered nearby, “I saw your horse, so I came to you here rather than wait—” He caught sight of Marguerite. “My lady! You found her, my lord?”
“Aye, Duncan, only a few minutes ago,” Bart replied dryly. He placed his hand at the base of Marguerite’s back and directed her out of the cottage to his horse before she could ask the knight what he meant.
Bart mounted his horse and reached one hand down to Marguerite as Duncan gave her a boost up. Once she was sitting sidesaddle atop Pegasus, Bart settled her into the V of his legs and encircled her with his arms to take hold of reins.
A faint flash of lightning lit the sky, and soon they heard the distant rumble of thunder.
Bart turned to Duncan. “Round up the men. ’Tis cold, and a storm is moving in. I would not have them chasing wild geese on a night like this.”
“Aye, my lord,” the young man replied. “I’ll see to it.”
Bart turned and rode in the direction of the castle, while Duncan mounted and headed toward the hills. When Bartholomew felt Marguerite shiver, he pulled her body even closer to share his heat. She smelled slightly floral, thoroughly feminine. He breathed deeply of her.
“My lord,” she said, turning her face toward his, “were you…did you think I had run away?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“But why would I leave here?” she asked, pulling her cloak more tightly around her. “Where would I go?”
Indeed. That was the question. “If you left Norwyck, where would you go, my lady?” he asked quietly. Her head was tucked under his chin and the side of her body rested against his chest.
“My lord,” she said in frustration, moving her head to gaze up at him. “I still have no memory of who I am, or from whence I came…though I am fairly certain I must be French.”
Bart did not respond. If she knew she was French, how much longer would it be before she remembered everything else? How much longer before she left Norwyck?
“When I sing, the French songs seem much more familiar, and the words come to me so easily.”
“Your English is perfect.”
“It does not feel as natural as the French.”
Bart would not argue the point. Mayhap she was French, although that was no comfort to him. The Scots were strongly aligned with the French, and she might very well be an ally of his Armstrong and MacEwen enemies.
Marguerite shivered again and huddled closer. Her body slumped with fatigue. Bart slipped one hand about her waist and knew that Alice Hoget was correct—Marguerite was exhausted.
She must have returned to the village after leaving him and Eleanor in the afternoon. God knew what kind of tasks she’d taken up at Symon’s house. Mayhap she’d made herself useful to the families of the other injured men, too.
Bart would not press her to come to him tonight. However, he had no intention of letting this opportunity to touch her go to waste.
Marguerite allowed herself to melt into Bartholomew’s embrace. The night was cold and she felt chilled. His warmth blanketed her, making her feel safe and secure in his arms. He still did not trust her, but that did not seem to matter tonight. He had been worried about her, and had sent his men searching for her.
She had felt his anger earlier, when he’d first entered Symon’s cottage, and though Marguerite had not understood it, she sensed that it had mellowed somehow. Mayhap he was entitled to some mistrust. After all, Felicia had committed the ultimate betrayal—adultery with Bartholomew’s enemy. ’Twould take a saint to forgive her and immediately trust again.
Without haste, they rode through the village lanes. Her hood was down, and Marguerite felt Bartholomew’s breath on her ear and her neck, instilling her with warmth and an awareness of the potent fire that burned within him. They reached the main gate of the castle, and Bartholomew guided his horse through the upper and lower baileys, to a large stable near the courtyard.
“I’ll bed Pegasus down, lads,” he said to the grooms who rou
sed themselves upon his arrival. “But the knights will soon return from the hills. Their mounts will need attention.”
Still holding her against him, Bartholomew rode into the dark recesses of the stable and dismounted. In no time, he’d lit a lamp, illuminating the area surrounding an empty horse stall.
“Slide down,” he said, raising his hands to her waist.
His dark eyes burned hot, and Marguerite trembled at the seductive promise she saw deep within. She took a breath, placed her hands on his shoulders and let herself down into his waiting arms.
He did not release her when her feet touched the ground, but kept his hands at her waist. He tipped his head and brushed her lips with his own.
An instant later, his hands were gone, and so was his mouth. “This will only take a few minutes,” he said, leading his horse into the stall.
More shaken by his gentle kiss than she wished to admit, Marguerite followed him and watched as he unbuckled the girth strap and lifted the huge saddle off the horse. Next, he unfastened the bridle and removed it, handing it to Marguerite, as if naught had just occurred between them.
“You can hang it on one of those hooks,” he said, indicating the wall outside the stall, where a row of leather straps and bridles hung.
Marguerite reached up and put the bridle on a hook, while Bartholomew pulled off the horse’s blanket, then rubbed down the animal’s back and legs. He tossed Marguerite a cloth. “We’ll finish sooner if you take that side,” he said.
Unmoving, Marguerite watched for a moment as Bartholomew rubbed the horse’s shoulder, then stroked the beast’s back and side. She looked at the cloth in her hand, then raised it to the horse. It seemed a wholly unfamiliar task, leading Marguerite to believe she’d never done it before.
Still, the motion was soothing, and she could only imagine how ’twould feel to have someone rub her down, and knead the knots from her muscles. ’Twas a foolish fancy, and she must have chuckled aloud at the thought, because Bartholomew asked, “What?”
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