A Warrior's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  He had not realized he might fall in love with the petite, dark-haired woman from Paris. He had not reckoned on how her attentions could make him feel the equal of any man. even Richard. Or that he would find her banter charming, taking him away from the cares of his responsibilities. Unfortunately, he had, and now the thought of losing Lisette was so unbearably painful, he would risk almost anything to keep her. Indeed, he was already risking his life, for if they were caught, they would surely hang.

  Suddenly, he heard a hiss and then his name. Startled and confused, Herbert peered down a narrow lane between two fishmongers and saw Elma beckoning to him. After looking around to make sure no one saw him, he joined her in the alley.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked in a whisper. “Should you not be in attendance on Lady Aileas? Richard told me she is ill.”

  “I have been for the apothecary. I sent him to the castle, then told him I had an errand to run for the lady.”

  “Perhaps you should return at once. They might have need of you.”

  “She is not very sick,” the maidservant replied scornfully. “A touch of ague, nothing more. Tell me, what does Richard think of his lordship’s sudden interest in outlying estates?”

  “He is not pleased.”

  “But we have nothing to fear, do we? Sir George won’t find anything?”

  “Richard assures me he won’t.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  Herbert could only shrug. “I’m beginning to think we should leave here, before our dealings are discovered. Things were easier when it was only Sir George’s father, and when it was only a few coins here and there. But we’ve done too much. We’re bound to be found out.”

  Elma eyed him suspiciously. “You wouldn’t be thinking of abandoning us, would you?”

  “No, of course not,” he lied.

  “Good.” She smiled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to leave Lisette behind.”

  “I would never leave her.”

  “And she would never leave you, unless you were poor or in prison. Or dead, of course.”

  “You’re lying,” he declared bravely.

  “We are all liars,” she told him, “and cheats and frauds.”

  “She loves me!” Herbert cried fervently, wanting to believe it, but knowing that was a lie, too.

  “Believe what you will,” Elma said coldly as she pushed past him. “But don’t ever think you can just pick up and run.”

  Elma proved to be right. Aileas was not seriously ill. Nevertheless, the apothecary, a middle-aged man with a bald pate and scraggly beard named Paracus, whose black robe seemed to bear evidence of every potion he had ever concocted, advised that she stay in bed. He also ordered her to drink a noxious brew he claimed would make her better in a few days.

  One taste and the brew went out the window. Then Aileas carefully refilled the bottle with water. The bottle continued to smell of the substance, so that no one suspected what she had done, and the water was tainted by the brew’s bitter taste, but it was infinitely better than drinking the potion.

  Even without it, Aileas felt better within a few days, although she did feel more tired than usual. She blamed that on the dull, anxious days, which seemed excruciatingly long because George was not there. She had never had a chance to talk to him before he had gone. Nor had she any notion when he would come back.

  She wasn’t used to having people flutter about her like irritating, twittering moths when she was unwell, either. In her father’s household, sick people were generally left to recover on their own, apart from having a servant bring them food and drink. Her father thought too much attention might encourage malingering, even among his own children.

  Attentive Margot had offered to see to the daily business of the household while Aileas recovered. She was probably doing a better job of it than she could ever hope to, Aileas thought despondently.

  To make matters worse, she heard nothing from her husband, even though Margot informed her that his farthest estate was just half a day’s ride away. He might have sent a messenger asking how she fared.

  Finally, on the fifth day, Aileas could stay in bed no longer, especially when Elma informed her that Lady Margot had taken to her own bed, for it was her woman’s time.

  That information gave Aileas a moment’s pause. If there was one thing she lacked in her father’s household, it was someone with whom she could discuss such matters.

  Nevertheless, since her nursemaid would not be able to watch over her, Aileas thought with a sardonic smile, she could get up and out of the bedchamber, where everything reminded her of George and the nights they had shared.

  Indeed, even attending to the household accounts would be preferable to staying here. That reason also proved the best excuse to convince Elma that she could not remain abed. Soon enough, Aileas was dressed and on the threshold of the solar, watching Herbert bending over his lists.

  “My lady!” Herbert cried, shoving back his chair and rising quickly. “Should you not still be resting? The apothecary said—”

  “I know what he said,” she replied somewhat peevishly. “I simply couldn’t endure staying in bed another moment. I thought I would go mad.”

  “Please, sit, my lady,” the black-garbed steward said anxiously as he drew another chair toward the table. “I was just looking at the figures for some eels we had the other day. I’m beginning to think they are too costly to have weekly.”

  Aileas maneuvered her heavy skirt as she sat on the edge of the seat. Perhaps she should have listened to Elma and chosen something lighter than this gown of amber brocade, but it was the one she found easiest to move in, despite the weight of the skirt. It fit perfectly in the bodice, and she could move her arms freely, for its sleeves were tight, with no cumbersome, dangling cuffs.

  She ran her finger around the edge of the wimple. She was not yet used to the constriction of the detested headdress. She had put it on only because she feared Elma would bar the door with her body rather than see her mistress leave the room without it, claiming that unless Aileas had something on her head, she would catch a chill again, for the rainy day was as gloomy as her mood.

  Herbert pushed a list of foodstuffs toward her. “Yes, I see,” she said, scanning the page. She tried not to think about the last time she had been here, before George had gone away more than a week ago. Unfortunately, everything she thought of these days was now divided into two parts: before George left, and after.

  “Is something the matter, my lady?” Herbert asked anxiously. “Truly, I think you should rest—”

  “I have been resting for quite long enough,” she said firmly. “I have been thinking about this,” she continued, grabbing another piece of parchment. She chose an item on the list at random, pointed at it—then stared disbelieving at the word and the number written next to it, and not just because she could actually decipher the word.

  “Oh, the new napkins,” Herbert confirmed, and she fought to keep the surprise from her face. She glanced at Herbert and he colored immediately as he drew back slightly, panic in his eyes. “We had not nearly enough. We needed fifty more.”

  “To make a total of...?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “When did these new napkins arrive?” she asked.

  “Before your wedding, my lady. We needed them for that happy occasion,” he added with a smile that only increased Aileas’s uneasiness.

  For she well recalled the total number of napkins in the linen cupboard the day Lady Margot had insisted they count them: one hundred and seventy-five.

  Twenty-five had disappeared in a month. Either a servant was stealing them—unlikely, considering that the linen stores were locked in a cupboard and there were but two keys, one in the possession of the household steward and the other on the chatelaine’s ring—or else some other criminal activity was afoot. Judging by Herbert’s reaction, she could well believe the household steward was involved, whatever was going on.

  “That seems to be qui
te a sum to be spent on linen,” she remarked.

  “Well, my lady, they are very fine ones.”

  “Yes, they are,” she replied calmly, although inwardly, she was anything but calm. Her instincts had been right, after all!

  Caution, her mind urged. It could be that she was eager to see dishonesty to prove her doubts to George when he returned. And if the steward was untrustworthy, it would not be wise to allow him to know of her mistrust while George was not here.

  Then she recalled that Lady Margot had possession of the chatelaine’s keys while she had been ill.

  Could Lady Margot be a thief? Why would she steal?

  All at once Aileas realized that she had come to trust Lady Margot. Aileas had seen rivalries and competition of many kinds, both subtle and blatant, and when she thought of how Margot had treated her, especially during her illness, she colored at the remembrance of her own petty jealousy. No, she could not believe Lady Margot would steal.

  Herbert and Richard Jolliet were another matter, however, especially in view of Herbert’s guilty reactions. It was possible they had been hoodwinking George and his father for years, although if they had, they would surely have a very good explanation.

  She would have to have more proof of dishonesty or the identity of the thief. At least she knew the kind of thing to look for now, and if her reading continued to improve, more evidence might yet be found.

  “I would like to see what other wares this linen merchant might have,” she remarked. “Does he live nearby?”

  “No, no, my lady, he does not,” Herbert replied quickly. “He comes from London. He happened to be passing through the village. Most conveniently, too, for us.”

  He smiled, but the panic had not left his eyes.

  “A pity,” she said. “Perhaps the next time Sir Richard goes to London on business for Sir George, he can ask the merchant to come our way again.”

  “Of course, my lady. I shall tell my brother of your request when he returns.”

  “Good. Is that everything, then, Herbert?” she asked.

  Suddenly she heard a slight commotion from the vicinity of the gate, and for a moment, her heart seemed to stop beating. “Is that...is Sir George come home?” she asked, powerless to move, or so it seemed, as if she were a deer who had just heard the snap of a twig beneath a hunter’s foot.

  The steward went to the window. “No, my lady. It is someone else. A visitor, I believe, although we are not expecting—”

  Now they could distinguish the voices of the arrivals as they entered the courtyard.

  “Rufus!” Lady Aileas cried, leaping up from the chair as if she were as healthy as the proverbial horse. She ran to the window, roughly pushing Herbert out of the way. “Rufus!” she called, waving wildly.

  Then she dashed out of the room as if pursued by a gang of cutthroats.

  Herbert turned back to regard the group of men gathered in the yard, led by a fellow with the reddest hair he had ever seen.

  One of the lady’s brothers, Herbert speculated, judging by her joyous reaction. Perhaps this unexpected visit would make her forget all thoughts of napkins and their number.

  The household steward turned away and wiped his sweating upper lip with his hand. God’s wounds, why had she lit on that item, of all things? What if she had counted the napkins? She had been nosing about the stores that day a while ago, with Lady Margot.

  What if she found out he had not ordered the number recorded? She might suspect—

  Napkins were simple things to steal. He could blame the servants. That was what Richard always said they would do if they were caught. He had tned to tell Richard it was too risky, that instead of perishables, they were talking about goods carefully stored.

  Herbert slumped down into the chair Lady Aileas had recently vacated. Perhaps he was getting all worked up over nothing. After all, Lady Aileas had not looked suspicious or said anything truly alarming. Perhaps it was only his own imagination running away with him. He was just getting fearful because she had happened upon that one item.

  Nevertheless, it would be wise to send a messenger to Richard, informing him that there was some business at Ravensloft that required his attention. Yes, that was the best thing—send for Richard and let him deal with this crisis, if crisis it were.

  Herbert heaved himself out of the chair and went to dispatch a messenger to his brother, occasionally glancing over his shoulder as if he expected to see his lord’s men bearing down on him.

  While down in the courtyard, Aileas joyfully greeted Sir Rufus Hamerton.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Rufus!”

  The young man ceased his shrewd appraisal of the castle at the sound of the familiar female voice. “Aileas!” he cried happily, turning in the direction of the caller and crouching defensively, expecting her to try to knock him over, as was her usual method of greeting him after a prolonged absence.

  Instead, he found himself slowly straightening and staring in amazement and dismay at the unexpectedly lovely woman, clad in a gown of rich golden brocade, who skittered to a stop several feet away from him. Smiling, she smoothed her garment and curtsied gracefully.

  Rufus felt as if he had never seen Aileas Dugall before. Perhaps, in a way, he never had. He had never seen her in a gown that was so unabashedly designed to highlight its wearer’s figure, cut with such care and clinging to her slender and astonishingly shapely frame. Much of the time, her features had been obscured by her unruly hair, so he had never noticed the perfection of her face, now outlined by the silk scarf and plain wimple, and the mind-numbing sensuality of her full lips. When she briefly lowered her eyelids in a demurely feminine manner, he wondered if this wasn’t the Aileas he knew at all, but some changeling left by the fairies.

  Rufus made a formally polite bow as she walked closer and gave him the kiss of greeting, her lips barely touching his cheek. She didn’t even smell like Aileas, for she was wearing some kind of flowery scent that made him wrinkle his nose.

  “Welcome to Ravensloft, Sir Rufus,” she said, and when she drew back, he scrutinized her face—her tired, anxious eyes, the dark circles beneath them, the hint of worry in her brow, the unfamiliar hesitation in her smile.

  God’s wounds, what had George de Gramercie done to her to change her so? Where was the bold, fearless, teasing Aileas he had known for years? To be sure, she looked good in a dress, yet something infinitely more precious seemed to be lacking.

  Rufus cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the several servants in the courtyard watching. “Lady Aileas, I must beg your forgiveness for arriving without an invitation,” he said, carefully formal. “My father has summoned me home and I thought to break my journey here and spend some time with you, since I do not know when I might be able to return to this part of the country. I trust Sir George will not object?”

  “He is not home at present,” Aileas said, and something else flickered in her eyes that made his anger at her husband burn brighter. “He has gone to visit his other estates, but I’m sure he will not object. Allow me to offer you the hospitality of our hall.” She made a wan little smile as she turned to lead the way into the largest building in the inner ward.

  “This is a marvelous castle, Ail—Lady Aileas,” he said, dutifully following her.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” she replied flatly.

  They reached the entrance to the hall and he paused on the threshold, his gaze moving from Aileas’s slender back to the huge room. The first thing to strike him, beyond the sheer overwhelming size, was the ostentation and magnificence of the tapestries adorning the walls.

  They were far too luxurious for his taste. A hall was not a cathedral, after all. A few tapestries for warmth were more than sufficient. The rest was wasteful extravagance, and he was rather surprised Aileas hadn’t removed them before they were ruined with smoke.

  Her father certainly would have.

  The rest of the hall seemed furnished with similar luxury, proving that Sir George was a man of
wealth and taste—but that was completely unimportant, if he was not making Aileas happy.

  Rufus realized Aileas had gone ahead and was waiting for him at the table on the dais. He quickened his pace and joined her, while an unabashedly curious maidservant poured them wine.

  Because he was thirsty, he took a long drink of the fine wine, then wiped his mouth. Aileas lifted her goblet and took a dainty sip.

  “Your father is in good health,” he said. “And you?”

  “I have had a slight illness recently. I am better now.”

  Her unnatural constraint troubled him more and more. Were they not old friends, at least? Rufus’s grip tightened on his goblet. “Sir George did not return knowing you were unwell?”

  “I did not send for him.”

  That, at least, sounded like something the Aileas he knew would do. She would never play the weakling, even when she was sick. “I should have guessed as much,” he said quietly, smiling his approval.

  She didn’t answer, although a blush bloomed on her cheeks. His heart began to beat faster.

  “You saw my father recently?”

  “I stopped there on my way here. Snout is going to be knighted in the fall.”

  That brought a more familiar smile to her face, and a spark of her former liveliness to her eyes. “He has waited long enough.”

  Rufus took another drink as the silence between them stretched, and Aileas tried to maintain some kind of equanimity, although inwardly, she felt anything but calm.

  Her first reaction to the sight of Rufus had been unallayed joy, because he was such a dear and old friend. In the first instant, too, there had been a touch of the old excitement that she had mistaken for love. That had disappeared quickly, to be replaced by affection, and memories of home and friendship.