But whatever the case, Constantine had a duty to fulfill, and he found that, this time, he didn’t have to remind himself to persevere. He limped toward the table until he stood before Theodora. She stopped her fidgeting and looked up at him, but her eyes were still darting, nervous; her wide mouth pressed tight into itself.
He reached out and took her hand, stiff and cold and small, into his own dirtied, cut fingers. He held it firmly when she twitched as though she would snatch it back, looking down at its ridiculous frailness inside his own grasp, so pale and slight, and he thought of the honor she had paid his family when she herself had lost so much, had yet been so ill and alone. When the urge struck him to lift that small, white hand to his mouth, he followed it.
Constantine closed his eyes as he pressed his lips to the backs of her fingers for a moment, breathing a long sigh into her cold skin. When he opened them and looked up at her over her hand, he saw that Theodora Rosemont was watching him with wide eyes, her lips parted.
“What . . . what are you doing?” she stammered in a quiet voice.
“Thank you,” he said and at last dropped their joined hands, although he did not release her yet. “For what you did for Christian and Patrice.”
She did not play coy, forcing him to detail the reason for his gratitude, and Constantine’s respect for the woman grew.
“It certainly wasn’t doing me any good,” she said of the crucifix, and although her tone was wry, her face was still solemn and she continued to hold his gaze.
“And thank you for what you did for me,” he added. “You were right—it was foolish of me to enter the keep when I had no idea what I would face once inside and no good plans to extricate myself.”
“You needed to go,” she said. “It is not very different from the times I dared return to Thurston Hold. It was too dangerous by far, and I never really achieved what I set out to do either time.”
“We’ve both learned our lessons, though, haven’t we?” Constantine said softly. “With the tools Jeremy brought today, I’ll be better able to enter and exit the keep.”
“And now I have you,” she said, and although he knew she’d meant it as a rejoinder to his intention of returning to the keep, once the words were loose in the air between them, they seemed to take on an entirely different connotation.
Constantine felt a stirring in his chest as he looked down at Theodora Rosemont, at least ten and five years his junior. Her pale face looking up at him in earnest, her fingers still in his grasp. Her hair flipped out around her head in such a way that seemed to make her eyes twice as big in the candlelight of the oratory. She appeared so frail that a hard fall might break her slight body, and yet she had already endured so much—and Constantine only knew a fraction of her hardships.
“What are you going to do when you have your son returned to you?” he asked suddenly, finding that he was curious about her future.
Theodora blinked, and it seemed to break whatever spell of intimacy that had bloomed between them. She pulled her hand from his, but very slowly, and turned back to the table to continue to look through the supplies.
“I don’t really know,” she said, loosening the drawstring of a muslin bag and then bringing it to her nose to smell it. She reached inside with her forefinger and thumb to retrieve a pinch of the contents and rub the crumbly herb between her fingertips. “I suppose it depends on whether you kill Glayer Felsteppe or not.”
Constantine frowned. “I will kill him. On that you can depend.”
“Hmm,” she said, flicking the bits of dried matter back into the sack and pulling the string tight once more. She picked up a jug and twisted at the cork with no little effort. “Well, I suppose if the king allows it, I will remain at Thurston Hold. It’s a wealthy property, and he will want a suitable guardian to manage the estate until my son is old enough to inherit.”
A cold fist seemed to grip Constantine’s neck and he felt angry at his foolishness. How quickly he had forgotten that the woman before him had lain with his greatest enemy—the man he’d come back to kill. She had borne him a son, he who had taken Christian from Constantine, and even as she stood before him, Theodora Rosemont was still that man’s wife.
He’d looked into her eyes and felt . . . what? Attraction? Sympathy? Camaraderie? Gratitude? He did owe her thanks for her assistance today, and for the respect she had shown the crude resting place of his family, but that did not mean he could treat her softly, as a woman deserving of his gentleness.
Even if it was through no fault of her own, she was still married to Glayer Felsteppe. And even if the boy was now in the hands of that depraved monster, at least Theodora Rosemont knew her son was alive.
“Constantine,” Dori said inquiringly, but he could barely afford her a glance now, his stomach was twisted so with anger and bitterness.
“What is it, Lady Theodora?” he snapped as he limped to the bench and sat down, stretching out his leg with a groan. His body felt as though he’d just been taken down from the rack. She didn’t answer and so he looked up with a sigh to find her standing before him in her ridiculous peasant’s apron that pooled around her feet, clutching the still-corked jug to her bosom like a little girl playing at pretend.
She thrust the jug toward him.
He looked at her for a moment and then took hold of the container, twisting the cork loose with a hollow pop. She took the jug and cork and turned back to the table at once, busying herself with the chalice, her hands fluttering over the items spread before her.
“You may call me Dori if you like,” she said in a quiet monotone. Then she glanced at him from the corner of her eyes, and he saw the flush come over her pale cheeks.
Constantine wondered, then, if he was not in greater danger now than he had been in the ruined keep. He was at such odds with himself when it came to her. Did he hate her? Did he respect her?
She walked toward him once more, the chalice in her hands. She held it toward him.
“It’s wine. I think perhaps your leg would prefer it to fish broth.”
Constantine waited a heartbeat of time before taking hold of the cup. “Thank you,” he said, but he didn’t look at her before she turned back to the table. He brought the cup to his lips. “Dori.”
* * *
Jeremy made his way back through the wood at the rear of Benningsgate to come out below the village on the road, Erasmus bounding along with his usual enthusiasm. The poor beast had been cooped up for so long in just the cottage and barn with the rain; today had been quite the treat to have received so much exercise. Indeed, Jeremy’s limbs were feeling the exertion of it all.
But, oh! The honor of being the first and only soul to know of the lord’s return! He felt his already considerable chest swell with pride. What a time he would have when all had been returned to Constantine Gerard and Jeremy could at last confess that he had known of the earl’s plans to reclaim Benningsgate from the bastard currently in residence at Thurston Hold.
He paused on the path to catch his breath and indulge in a bit of fancy. Perhaps Lord Gerard would even recognize Jeremy’s service before the household. Wouldn’t that be grand?
That Rosemont woman, however; she was a trial.
He slowly began moving up the road once again, his legs and back aching from the strain of the rope and the many steps he’d walked that day, but the discomfort of his body did nothing to diminish the satisfied smile on his face.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said to Erasmus, who ran back to him repeatedly, seeming to urge him forward. The large animal was probably more than ready to eat, as was his master.
He entered between the first two cottages and a golden specter stepped out from the right, her thick arms crossed over her chest.
“And just where have you been?” Nell demanded. She glanced down at the loping dog. “Yes, I see you as well; good evening, Erasmus.”
Jeremy staggered to a halt, his hand to his chest. “Glory, woman! What are you thinking, jumping out at me like
that?”
“You’ve been gone all the day,” she accused, her eyes narrowing in her broad face. “Save when you was skulking through the village with Harmon’s ladder. And now my best apron is missing from the line.”
Jeremy swallowed and his heart beat faster, although he waved the woman away and continued on through the village. “What use have I for your apron?”
“What use have you for Harmon’s ladder’s a better query, I should think,” she countered, trailing along behind him. “It’s not as though you can climb it.”
“What mean you I can’t climb it?” Jeremy demanded and stopped in the street to turn to face her, feeling his cheeks heat. He knew he must look a dreadful fright, being about the lord’s business all the day—and Nell’s hair was in its typical, round-the-head plait beneath her slight kerchief, the golden strands blending in such a comely manner with the gray. “O’ course I can climb it, lest I’d never have taken it!”
“So you did take it,” she said, looking at him sideways. “For what?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” he said and turned back around to continue on to the safe haven of his cottage.
Nell didn’t follow him, but she did call out after him. “I’ve made a stew. I might need a bit o’ convincing on what to tell Harmon when next he comes ’round askin’ after his ladder.”
Jeremy stopped in the street again and half-turned to look back at Nell. “Why should you have to tell him anything? I took his ladder to place a trap.”
“Why didn’t you bring it back, then?” she demanded.
“Because I’ll need to get it down, won’t I?” he said with his arms spread, feeling rather proud of himself at his quick thinking.
“I don’t believe you,” she said simply, this time putting her hands on her hips. “I think you’re up to something.” She looked him up and down. “Something at the ruin.”
“Why on earth would you think that?” he said, wondering how she could have so accurately guessed his whereabouts.
“You’ve soot all ’round your tunic,” Nell said, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing down at his middle. “I thought it was only mud from afar, but I see that it’s not. It’s clearly soot.”
Jeremy looked up at her, his tongue seemingly stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Nell quirked an eyebrow, and Jeremy had to admit her comeliness was no match for his brain. “I’ll expect you when you’ve had the chance to wash up.”
Jeremy nodded sheepishly and then turned toward his cottage.
It was only Nell after all. And she could keep a secret.
Chapter 14
Mary lifted her skirts and mounted the steps to the little guardhouse, Valentine reaching in front of her and courteously wrenching the door open with a familiar screech. He swept his other hand before his stomach and bowed.
“After you, mi amor,” he said.
Her heart still thrilled at him, especially when he was outfitted so splendidly as he was now.
Mary swept into the guardhouse, startling the young man from his stool. He gained his feet.
“Good day, milady,” he said, turning as Mary barely paid him any heed beyond a smile. His voice called after her and she could hear the indecision in his tone. “I beg your pardon, but you just can’t—milady?”
He caught up with her and lightly took her elbow, causing Mary to spin around with wide eyes. But she needn’t have worried, for before she could come full circle, her husband had pressed the lad against the wall of the guardhouse, a knife point under his chin.
“Perhaps you have no been taught that you do no touch a lady—especially no the lady of Beckham Hall, and especially no my wife,” Valentine said in a chastising tone, looking through his lashes at the guard.
The young man gulped, his eyes going from Valentine to Mary and then to the commotion of footfalls trampling up the steps to the door.
“L-lady M-Mary?” he stuttered. “B-but, the lord said—the king said—I—”
“Oh, it’s quite all right, dear,” Mary said, gesturing to her husband to let the guard go. “I’m certain Beckham has been through a trial in my absence.” She reached out and patted the young man’s forearm, if only to distract him from the variety of individuals now filing past him in somewhat dubious raiment. They’d done their best, but there was only so much that could be accomplished with one’s costume when one was wearing an eyepatch.
She continued, “I’ve all the necessary documentation, so I need only inform Lord . . . oh, I’m afraid his name has slipped my mind again.”
Valentine smirked at her. “You are so silly.”
“I am,” she agreed and wrinkled her nose at him before looking back to the young guard. “Lord . . . ?”
“Quimby, milady,” the lad finally managed to stutter. He stood away from the wall and moved as though he would overtake Mary into the hall. “I’ll go and—”
“No, no,” she trilled on a laugh and gave the young soldier a sweet smile as Valentine shoved him back into the guardhouse and then gave him a gentle pat and made a show of brushing off and tidying the guard’s tunic. “No need for that! I remember the way to my own quarters well enough, I daresay.”
The hall beyond was filling with raucous commotion as the crew from The Azure Skull infiltrated the place, jolting the few soldiers quartered at Beckham Hall from their complacency with wide-eyed expressions. Some of Francisco’s men had managed to secure a motley collection of clothing meant to mimic military garb, but if one only looked, the striped sashes, ornate and foreign swords, and odd jewelry were quite obvious.
And of course there was the fellow with the unfortunate eyepatch.
Maisie Lindsey stepped onto one of the benches and then sat her bottom directly on the tabletop in the far corner of the hall, Valentina on her knees. Mary watched the woman’s keen eyes and knew that Valentine’s and her backs would be safe from unlikely attack. Maisie raised one of Valentina’s hands and waggled it in their direction.
Mary blew the pair a kiss as, behind her, the more authentically clothed members of the crew filed from the guardhouse and through the doorway leading to the garrison and storeroom below, their arms laden with crates and trunks and baskets. Roman Berg’s intimidating presence as foreman discouraged any argument from the surprised and confused contingent of Beckham soldiers coming up from the lower quarters.
Adrian Hailsworth breezed through the opening and cut between the line of men and cargo, a sheaf of parchment in one hand and a hammer and tacks in the other. He peeled off one of the sheaves and handed it to Roman without a second glance. Mary doubted the ink was even dry as the man began to hammer one of the other authentic-looking proclamations to the door of the guardhouse.
Isra Tak’Ahn urged Christian up the steps to the hall before her, the boy doing his best to walk carefully while carrying a hooded Lou on his right forearm in the too big gauntlet. The lad was propping up his elbow with his other hand, and Mary thought Roman and Isra’s idea to keep Christian focused on something other than the forcible seizure of Beckham Hall quite ingenious.
Francisco was the last to sweep inside, nodding to Roman as he took charge of his crew, and Roman turned on his heel and walked toward Mary and her husband. Roman handed Valentine the parchment, meeting his gaze and giving him a nod of his own.
“Let’s do this.”
Valentine looked down at Mary as he tucked the parchment inside his fine velvet tunic. “Shall we, mi amor?”
Mary smiled at him, and together the three walked to the door at the foot of the stairs, which Mary noticed had been replaced with one twice as fortified as that which Glayer Felsteppe’s men had broken down when she and Valentine had fled Beckham for their very lives. The door was suitable for a fortress indeed, and looked to be virtually impenetrable.
Had the present Lord Quimby bothered to engage it, that is.
“I don’t think they saw us coming, my darling,” Mary murmured through her smile as she mounted the first s
tep.
“All the time, they are underestimating us,” he said ruefully. “Have you your blade, mi amor?”
“I’m seldom without it. Oh, Valentine, what wonderful fun this is!”
“It pleases me that you are so happy, Maria. I still think you should have worn the hat,” he murmured, and she felt his hand slide over her hip as he followed her up the stairs.
“Later,” she promised, and then called up into the brightness above their heads in a cheery tone. “Hello? Hello-o? Good day, Lord Quimby. Are you about?”
Mary heard a wheezing gasp and then a short fit of coughing before she came to the top of the stairs. Apparently they had interrupted someone’s nap. She prepared herself for the sight of her old, bare hall, where she had spent the whole of her life with only her nurse, Agnes, and the kind Father Braund for company. She feared the memories that would flood her upon gaining the upper floor might throw her off her game.
But she breathed a sigh of relief that quickly turned to a gasp of pleasure as she came into the tall, columned room while a man of perhaps three score struggled to push himself up from the upholstered chair before the hearth. Gone were the stark floors and walls, replaced with thick, dark rugs that seemed to ripple in the bright sunlight streaming through the tall windows like lush, magical lakes. Colorful tapestries and gilded urns decorated the spaces between the windows and braided cords wreathed around the columns. It smelled of warm beeswax and pipe smoke and it took a bit of self-control for Mary to refrain from a happy jog on the spot.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” the old man said with a rusty clearing of his throat. “Someone should have announced you.”
Mary rushed toward him with her hands outstretched, leaving Valentine and Roman standing near the top of the stairs. She shined her brightest smile at him as she reached him.
“Lord Quimby, at last,” she said and clasped the old man’s hands.
His smile was pleased if a bit bemused. “Again, I must beg your pardon, my lady—it is clear that you are familiar with me and yet I cannot for the life of me place the how of it. Surely even in my old age I would not forget a face as comely or a voice as gracious as yours.”
Constantine Page 14