“But my lor—”
“I’ll be gone before any of the servants are about, Marguerite,” he said as he fanned the flame. He did not tell her how loath he was to spend the rest of the night alone in his bed, probably because his need for her surprised him. He wanted her nearby not just for the release her body could provide, but for something more. Her mere presence, holding her close…that was enough.
Chapter Eighteen
In the weeks since Bart had made Marguerite his mistress, there was a growing sense of calm in the keep and the village itself. Men resumed working on the wall under Edwin Gayte’s direction, and there were no further mishaps. Every man who was injured had recovered, except for Symon, whose leg was still in splints, and one other fellow, whose arm had been broken.
Norwyck’s knights had turned up naught on their patrols, other than one vague sign after a heavy rain a few weeks past, of a man traveling on foot from the vicinity of Norwyck, toward Braemar Keep. Why any Englishman would go to Armstrong’s stronghold was difficult to understand, but Bart kept that information stored in the recesses of his mind.
A tendency toward complacency had come over him recently, and he worried that sharing Marguerite’s bed was making him lose his edge. So he worked his knights—and himself—tirelessly. They practiced without mercy on the field every morning with swords and quintain, and patrols went out every night. He would create such a Norwyck presence in the hills that Armstrong would never have the belly to attack.
Bart glanced up from his desk when the door to his study opened.
“Ah, this is a surprise,” Sir Walter said. “You’re sitting.”
Bart let the remark go and lifted the sheet of parchment he’d been reading. “This is a missive from Bitterlee.”
“For Henry?”
Bart nodded. “Aye. Lord Bitterlee has agreed to take Henry for fostering.”
Walter clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the other side of the room. “’Tis time the boy left us,” he said. “What about John?”
“John will stay. He’ll be my squire.”
Walter gave a slow nod, as if unsure that this was the correct course, but unwilling to say so.
“It only remains to determine when Hal should leave Norwyck,” Bart said.
“Do you plan to escort him yourself?”
Bart jabbed his fingers through his hair. “I would like to, but I don—”
“All has been quiet for weeks,” Walter said. “’Tis winter now. Armstrong has likely closed himself up by the fire in his keep and will remain there until spring.”
Bart gave a shake of his head. “Do not believe that for one moment. Armstrong will attack as soon as he thinks I’ve relaxed our vigilance.”
“And so you wait,” Walter said. “Why not attack?”
“I have no wish to lose any more men than necessary,” he said. “Once the wall is finished, we will be in a better position to defend the village and the castle. Fewer Norwyck men will be lost.”
“Aye,” Walter said. “But ’tis not likely that you’ll get Lachann or Dùghlas by waiting here for them.”
“’Tis what I’ve decided, Walter,” Bartholomew said. “At least until spring. Mayhap I’ll have a different plan then. For now, I do not wish to make war upon the Scot.”
“And what about Henry?” Walter asked. “Will you wait until spring to take him to Lord Bitterlee?”
“Mayhap,” he said, frowning. “Though Hal is anxious to go.”
“’Tis difficult to let him go,” Walter said. “But the earl of Bitterlee is a good and fair man. He recently wed, did he not?”
“Aye.”
“Something you should consider.” There was a harsh edge to the old knight’s voice, an edge Bartholomew had not heard since he was a lad.
Bart looked up sharply. “Nay. ’Tis something I’ll never again consider.”
“Lady Marguerite is a likely wife, my lord,” Walter said.
“My decision has naught to do with her,” Bart said.
“You would rather keep Lady Marguerite as your leman, your whore?” Walter taunted.
Bart stood so abruptly, his chair fell over.
“So we do have a new whore of Norwyck?” Walter added, intentionally sarcastic.
Bart’s jaw clenched and a vein pulsed in his temple. He tightened his hands into fists.
“Never again, old man,” Bart said in a quiet, but threatening tone. “Never again say such a thing about Lady Marguerite.” He towered over the old knight, and could easily have bested the man, but had too much respect for his family’s retainer.
Walter did not back down. “What else should we think, my lord? The servants…even your brothers are aware of your…your recent sleeping habits.”
“You should think naught!” Bart barked. “’Tis none of your concern.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Sir Walter said as he went to the door. “Forgive me for pointing out what you should already know.”
As Walter left the room, Bartholomew stood speechless. Then, turning around, he set his jaw defiantly and kicked the chair he’d knocked over. ’Twas no one’s business what occurred between himself and Marguerite. No one’s.
He picked up Bitterlee’s letter again, but tossed the parchment back to the table without looking at it.
He would not wed again. It did not matter what Walter or anyone else said about his liaison with Marguerite. She would never become his wife.
In shock, Mairi turned on her heel and hurried away from Bartholomew’s study. She had just raised her hand to knock on the door when she’d heard the voices. Of course, she was not meant to hear that interchange between Bart and Sir Walter, and she had been unable to hear it all. But she had heard enough.
She was the new whore of Norwyck.
With her heart in her throat, she pulled her shawl over her shoulders and went out the first door she saw. ’Twas cold, but Mairi did not feel it as she half ran across the bailey to the barren winter garden. She kept going until she reached the shed—the place where Bartholomew had nearly seduced her once before, a lifetime ago.
Fumbling with the latch on the door, she managed to lift it, then pushed the door in and went inside, weeping openly now.
They were foolish tears, she knew. But it hurt nonetheless, facing up to the fact that she was no more to Bartholomew than his kept whore. And that everyone at Norwyck knew it.
Whatever had been her purpose in going to Bartholomew’s study, she could not remember it now. She gave herself up wholly to her sorrow and her regret that there was no alternative to her present course of action.
If she returned to Braemar Keep, she would soon find herself wed to Carmag MacEwen. If she told Bartholomew that she was Mairi Armstrong, ’twas likely he would use her as a hostage in exchange for Dùghlas, perhaps. Bart hated her brother and would like naught more than to kill him and Lachann for their grievous wrongs against Norwyck.
Yet that would set off a war much worse than any of the border skirmishes Norwyck had experienced to date. Many more men would be injured and killed if Lachann Armstrong and Carmag MacEwen joined forces, and Mairi could not tell Bart, could not warn him, without giving her identity away.
Nay, she had no choice but to remain here as Bartholomew Holton’s whore. And hearing the word from Sir Walter’s mouth was like a stinging slap in her face.
Bartholomew’s lack of denial was even worse.
When she had exhausted all her tears, she wiped her face with the edge of her shawl. She would return to whatever she’d been doing when she’d overheard Bartholomew’s discussion. She made her way to the shed door and stepped outside, only to see Eleanor skipping up the path. With Bartholomew.
’Twas too late to slip back into the shed, for she’d already been seen.
“Lady Marguerite!” Eleanor called, breaking into a run.
Mairi turned quickly away and wiped her face again, loath to think that any sign of her tears remained.
“You were suppos
ed to go and get Bartie—What is it? What is wrong?” the child demanded.
“’Tis naught,” Mairi replied, forcing a smile to her lips. She could not bring herself to look up at Bartholomew, who stood behind Eleanor.
“You are weeping!”
“Nay!” Mairi said hastily. “’Tis only a bit of dust in my eye.”
“Let me see,” Bartholomew said, coming to face her. He bent slightly at the knees, took Mairi’s chin between his fingers and tipped her head back.
Mairi shrugged out of his hold and stepped away. “’Tis naught,” she said, starting down the path. “Are we going into the village or not?” she asked, remembering now why she’d gone to get Bartholomew.
Something was definitely amiss. Bart had come to know Marguerite’s face and all her expressions as well as his own, but this one…he’d never seen it before. And it did not bode well.
She had been weeping, and she had not wanted him to know it. And that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. ’Twas not that he thought she was lying to him, or keeping some dark and dangerous secret from him. He knew better. She had not had contact with anyone but the castle servants, and a few of the villagers, so he’d come to believe her purpose at Norwyck was no more nefarious than she’d said.
But something had upset her. And an instinct within him drew out a deep sense of protection. He wanted to strike out at whatever had caused her tears.
Bart considered carrying her back to the keep and into the tower, where they’d shared so many delectable hours together.
“Bartie, will you come with us to the village?” Eleanor asked, skipping alongside him while holding his hand.
“What business have you in the village?” he asked.
“Tildy’s mum had her bairn last night,” his sister replied. “And I want to see it.”
“What makes you think I’d be interested in seeing the miller’s newest child?”
“I didn’t think so,” Eleanor chirped. “But Lady Marguerite said you might be persuaded to walk with us to the village.”
“Ah…” he said, absurdly pleased that Marguerite had intended to seek out his company.
Eleanor let go of his hand and ran to a large rock that bordered a small pond. She jumped up on it, then skipped to the next rock, holding her arms out to keep her balance. One wrong step and she would fall into the icy water. “And that’s why she was supposed to go and get you in your study,” the child called out, “and not be out here in the garden!”
“Eleanor, get down,” Marguerite said.
Bart took several long strides and reached the little girl before any disaster befell her. He took her hand and made her jump down beside him.
“Come on,” he said. “You know, I think Hal is right to call you ‘pest.”’
She stuck out her lower lip and acted greatly insulted. But her mood did not last long. She was soon chattering enough for all three of them, precluding any opportunity for Bart to question Marguerite.
He wondered why she had not come to him in his study as Eleanor had said. If she had truly wanted him to walk with her, why—
God’s bones, had she overheard his conversation with Walter?
Bart tried to recall the exact content of their talk, but could not. What he did remember was that she had clearly been called “Norwyck’s whore.”
They reached the miller’s cottage and went inside. Eleanor’s friend was thrilled to see her, and the rest of the family scrambled to make the cottage presentable for the lord, and to show him the new bairn.
Bart watched restlessly as Marguerite put them all at ease, cooing and praising the child, and calling it beautiful, when all Bart could see was a shriveled red bundle that let out a terrible wail when it was taken from its mother.
Yet Marguerite took the squalling thing, held it in the crook of her arm and rocked it until it quieted.
Her eyes held an extraordinary expression, and Bart found himself rubbing his chest and wishing he could slam his fist through something. Sir Walter should have known better than to engage in such talk when they could be so easily overheard.
“My lord, you honor my house,” the miller said. “Pour his lordship a cup of ale, lad,” he said to his eldest son.
Bart took the mug that was offered, even though he had no wish to drink here, or to deplete the miller’s stores. But ’twould have dishonored the man to refuse his hospitality.
“’Tis a fine, er…”
“Lad, m’lord,” the miller said jovially. “Another lad.”
“Well, my congratulations to you, Miller.” He lifted the mug and drank.
“Let me see,” Eleanor whispered, coming up to Marguerite and pulling her arm so that she would lower the infant.
Marguerite sat down on a stool near a rough table and leaned toward the girl. Her shawl dropped away, leaving her hair uncovered and shining in the light that came in through the west window. Her delicate fingers pulled the blanket away from the infant’s chin so that Eleanor could see his entire face.
Bart watched, transfixed, while Marguerite smiled and spoke softly over the tiny down-covered head.
“He has a little dimple in his chin,” Eleanor whispered.
“Aye, he does,” Marguerite responded. Bart saw her throat move as she swallowed, and he had the impression that she was about to weep again, though he had no understanding of why something so simple should cause such emotion in her. “Look at his tiny fingers, Eleanor.”
Bart’s eyes followed when Marguerite lifted the bairn’s hand, and he was surprised to see the miniature perfection of the fingers, the tiny nails. And he suddenly knew what a miracle this was, something he’d never noted before.
Marguerite turned away abruptly, but not before Bart saw a tear escape one eye.
“Let’s go and play,” Tildy said, pulling Eleanor away from the infant. “We can look at Willie anytime.”
“Willie?” Bart looked up sharply. “You named him for my brother?” he asked the miller.
“Ah, aye, m’lord,” the man replied. “I hope you’re not offen—”
“Nay, I take no offense,” he said, frowning. ’Twas too much. First Marguerite’s tears, now this remembrance of Will. “’Tis good of you to remember William this way.”
“He was a good lad, your brother, m’lord,” the miller said.
Bart nodded, feeling his loss once again. Will would have made a much better lord of Norwyck. The title and responsibilities were not what Bart had had in mind when he’d gone off to fight in Scotland three years before. He had intended to do no more than return for his wife when his service to King Edward was done, and make a home in the manor house that had been part of Felicia’s dowry. He’d wanted to raise Holton sons and daughters, much as his own father had done.
As Felicia’s widower, Bart still retained possession of her properties, though he had no interest in ever visiting any of them. The houses were closed up and left to rot, though the fields were still tilled by the peasantry. Mayhap he would deed the manor house to Marguerite when he eventually tired of her.
Except Bart did not think he would ever tire of Marguerite.
Mairi vowed never again to allow Bartholomew to see her tears. Which would not be difficult, for she intended never to weep again. Though her situation was not of her choosing, life could be much worse. Had she washed ashore a few miles north, she would have become the wife of Laird MacEwen.
She lay next to Bartholomew as he slept. He had made love to her with a gentleness he had never shown before, and Mairi believed his feelings toward her had softened. She knew he would never speak to her of love, but Mairi would do all that was necessary to assure his satisfaction with her. She would give him no reason to discard her, never show any sorrow or regret for her position in his life.
She would be certain that he enjoyed her in their bed, so that he could not possibly want another. He had taught her much, these last few weeks, of a man’s needs, and what a woman could do to satisfy them. He had also shown her the del
ights of her own body, and was tireless in arousing and then satisfying her.
He reached for her. “Still awake?” he murmured, nuzzling her ear.
“Umm.”
“Come here,” he said, pulling her closer. “Let me taste you.”
She turned and faced him, breathing in his scent as his lips met hers. She cherished this closeness that they often found during the hours after they first fell asleep, times when Bart would kiss her and hold her until she dropped back into slumber.
Her feelings for him deepened every day as she observed him going about his tasks: training his knights, rearing his family, overseeing the welfare of his village. He was responsible and caring, though he would have all of Norwyck believe that he was hard and callous.
When she awoke the next morn, he was gone, as was his habit. Mairi knew he trained every day in anticipation of the battle he would eventually have to fight against Armstrong. Sir Walter had convinced him to take on even more knights, expecting that battle to come soon, whether Bartholomew wished it or not.
Mairi stayed within the warm confines of her bed for a few minutes, knowing that the floor would be cold, even though Bartholomew had stoked the fire before leaving. When she finally dragged herself out of bed and stood, she had to sit back down again, or fall down. She was as light-headed as she’d been right after the shipwreck. And nauseated.
She reached up and felt the place on her head where she’d been hit, but found only a slight soreness left over from weeks ago. ’Twas not what caused her nausea.
She swallowed several times to keep from vomiting, but finally made an awkward lunge for the basin and retched. The light-headedness persisted, and Mairi sank to the cold floor, puzzling over what was wrong with her.
And then it dawned on her. She’d watched Caitir go through this four times—once with each child, and again with the one she lost.
And Mairi knew she was with child.
As terrifying as ’twas, she was elated with the knowledge that she carried Bartholomew’s bairn.
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