“By all accounts, young Anselm is behaving himself for once,” Agatha continued. “Not that your lady pays him any notice beyond insults.” She chuckled. “Her maid tells me she treats him worse than a cur.”
By common accord, they set off walking back toward the cave and the comfort of its fire, Agatha leaning heavily on Reynard’s arm.
After Martha had been taken, the outlaws abandoned Seth’s hunting lodge, and moved on to another hideout. The change of location was merely a precaution. Vadim did not believe Anselm or the earl would come looking for him. He ground his teeth.
Why would they? They have my woman.
He swung Agatha’s basket violently as they walked, consumed with thoughts of stealing Martha back from his foster brother. Although she was sheltered by Anselm’s questionable protection for now, her situation could change in a heartbeat.
At that moment, Vadim truly envied Agatha. For all that she was slightly plump, and well past her bloom, the good woman had an ability he would give a great deal to possess: that of slipping back and forth between two worlds without rousing suspicion, and with all the stealth of a phantom. “Would you be able to get a message to her, Agatha?” he asked. Although Agatha spent much of her time in the castle’s kitchens, he knew she was not always confined there.
“I will certainly try, m’lord,” she replied. “What would you have me say?”
Vadim hardly knew. There was so much he wanted to say. How could he condense the contents of his heart into a few brief lines for Agatha to memorize? He had only a few hours in which to try.
CHAPTER THREE
“I said no.” Martha sat on the window seat in Anselm’s chambers, staring out of the mullioned window into the courtyard below. The small diamonds of thick, bubbled glass distorted her vision, reminding her of the House of Mirrors at a fun-fair.
“Please, sweeting?” Anselm stood at her side, attempting to wheedle her into submission. “The earl has a surprise for you.”
“Yeah? Call me paranoid, but I don’t think I’d enjoy his idea of a surprise.” Martha alternately closed one eye and then the other, watching the riders in the courtyard jump from side to side.
“You might wear your new gown—”
“Are you deaf?” Finally, she turned to look at him, eyeing him with contempt. “No. No. No!”
Anselm’s jaw tightened, a sure sign he was battling to keep hold of his temper. Again. She had to admit, albeit grudgingly, he was getting better at keeping a lid on it. So far, she’d given him plenty of opportunity to practice his self-control.
A week had passed since Martha first arrived at Edgeway castle. It felt like a decade. In all that time, she hadn’t once ventured from Anselm’s rooms. Every morning as he went out, he carefully locked the door behind him, imprisoning Martha and the young maid he’d supplied her with.
They didn’t starve in his absence, though. One of the earl’s brutish soldiers brought them food and drink at regular intervals throughout the day. For their added comfort, Anselm had supplied them with a medieval version of a portable toilet, which was just as gross as its modern-day counterpart.
If Martha had hoped to mug her maid for a spare key, she was to be disappointed; the girl didn’t have one. While Anselm was away, young Effie was as much a prisoner as Martha was. The only difference was, when Anselm returned from whatever evil-sidekick business detained him, the maid was allowed to leave.
Martha bungeed from depressed to angry and back again, hitting every other mood swing on the way. Being parted from Vadim was a permanent unbearable ache in her heart. Although she refused to let Anselm see her tears, he must have heard her crying into her pillow at night.
At least she had her own bedroom. But her soft bed with its mountain of pillows might well have been a bed of nails. Without Vadim, there was no comfort in it.
She missed the way his long legs entwined with hers, the heat of his body, and the safety of his arms. The worst thing was she couldn’t remember what his eyes looked like anymore. A symptom of her sorrow? Whatever it was, the more she concentrated, the further his face slipped away from her.
She glared at Anselm. Bastard! He was responsible for all of this. Him! But for Anselm’s interference, the earl would’ve never given her a second glance back in Darumvale. And now he wanted her to go to some fecking party with him? No way.
Anselm took a deep breath. “Let me put it another way, m’lady—”
She liked when he called her that. It was an indication that he was about to be honest. The truth was much easier to stomach than his false friendship.
“—the invitation is not a request.”
“Really?” She gave a tight-lipped smile. A command was a different matter. “Then why didn’t you just say so?” She got up and swept past him on the way to her bedchamber. The last thing she needed was for Anselm to get the impression she was doing anything to please him. Only responding to direct orders was her small, if passive, act of rebellion.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
“To change.”
She reached the sanctuary of her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. At least there was one place she could go to escape Anselm’s foul company. She leaned back against the reassuring solidity of the oak door and closed her eyes for a moment.
How much longer will I be stuck here? Where are you, Vadim?
Tonight’s supper invitation worried her. The earl must have got something nasty planned. Surely he hadn’t captured Vadim. No. If that were true, His Evilness would’ve been unable to postpone his gloating.
With a sigh, she slid the door bolt then went over to the bed to look at the gown Anselm had bought for her. It was a frothy gold-and-cream affair, beautifully embroidered with tiny golden flowers and branching intertwining leaves. The low neckline and long sleeves were considered quite de rigueur by the noble ladies of Edgeway castle. It was beautiful. Perfect.
Martha hated it.
She would have much preferred to wear her old and battered gray dress—the one Vadim had brought for her so long ago—stained and worn though it was.
This dress looked like an invisible person lying there, splayed out on the bed. A ghost. She trailed her fingers over the cool, creamy silk. If she wore this thing, who would she become?
Stop it! She stalked away to the window and fixed her gaze on the horizon. The endless days of inactivity were getting to her. With only embroidery to distract her, she was slowly going out of her mind. Besides, she was useless with a needle. Even the ever-patient Effie had given up trying to teach her.
Back in the twenty-first century, she would while away the hours of confinement with a good book. Unfortunately, the few books Anselm possessed were written in a script she couldn’t understand. Anyway, something told her they weren’t sizzling medieval bonk-buster novels, not written on precious vellum. Paper was scarce in Erde.
Only one thing prevented her from throwing herself out of the mullioned windows and onto the courtyard below, a solitary shaft of sunlight in a world of fog.
Her name was Agatha.
Two days ago, a stranger had accompanied the surly guard when he came to deliver lunch.
“I have come to check your measurements, m’lady,” a middle-aged woman announced, by way of an introduction. “The seamstress needs to make a few adjustments to one of your gowns.”
Over the last couple of days, Martha had been constantly measured and re-measured. At first, she’d kicked up a stink, not wanting Anselm to buy her anything. Then it dawned on her. Here was the perfect risk-free way in which to hurt him. So from then on, she began inflicting grievous bodily harm on his purse.
Suddenly, she began demanding the finest materials for her gowns, and the most exquisite embroidery. The poor seamstress and her team must have been sewing around the clock to keep up with all her extravagant requests.
Anselm had better have very deep pockets. Martha smiled to herself as she stared deep into the fire’s flames. She liked fire watching; it sedated her mind, and stopped her stressing. It was almost as good as a TV.
She was vaguely aware of the strange woman sending Effie away.
“Have your luncheon in the kitchen today, child. You deserve a reprieve. I will tend m’lady until you return.”
The changeover was marked by a sudden scurrying of feet and the clatter of plates. Then the door slammed, and the key turned twice in the lock as always. A heavy silence descended on the room.
“Shall we begin, m’lady?”
Martha jumped. The short, plump woman was standing beside her chair, looking her over with a familiarity she found unsettling. It was almost as if the woman knew her. Which was, of course, ridiculous.
“Whatever.” Martha rose from her chair and held out her arms like an obedient tailor’s dummy, waiting for the woman to take out her length of string and start measuring.
“A whole new wardrobe, hmm?” The woman stretched her arms around Martha’s body in order to measure her waist. “Lord Anselm has certainly fallen hard this time.” She chuckled softly to herself.
“Mmm.” Martha made a small, non-committal sound and turned her head to watch the fat, white clouds drifting past the window. She wished the woman would just hurry up and go. She wasn’t in the mood for silly chitchat.
“Are you happy here, Martha?”
That grabbed her attention. Jerking her head about, Martha stared at the weird woman. She didn’t call me “m’lady”. Even though she was sick to the back teeth of hearing m’lady by now, its absence suddenly seemed very odd.
“Am I happy?” Martha lowered her arms. Sod the measurements. “Ooh, I don’t know. Let’s think about that for a moment, shall we? Tell me, would you be happy, stuck in these effing rooms night and day with that treacherous snake of a man as your live-in jailer?”
Her snarky tone only increased the other woman’s amusement. She actually laughed out loud, making no effort to disguise it.
“You know what?” Martha said. “We’re done here.” Thoroughly pissed off, she stalked away in the direction of her bedroom. “See yourself out, won’t you.”
“Vadim said you could be blunt.”
Martha slammed on the brakes and stopped walking. “What did you say?” She stood rigid, not daring to turn around in case the expression on her face gave her away.
“You heard me well enough, I think.” The woman’s slippers slapped softly against the wooden floor as she approached. “He sent a message for you if you care to hear it.”
Martha clenched her hands into fists. “Is that so?” She spun about to face her tormentor, her lips curved into a thin smile. “And how did he manage that, eh? Vadim’s dead. Or are you in the habit of communicating with ghosts?”
What kind of twisted trick was this? Did the earl really think she was stupid enough to fall for something so obvious?
“He said you would be suspicious.” The woman grinned, exposing her crooked yellow teeth.
“Oh? He said quite a lot, didn’t he?” Martha stared the woman down from her slightly superior height. “I never realized the spirits were quite so chatty. Heaven can’t be all it’s cracked up to be, huh?”
The woman laughed. She stood so close that Martha caught an unpleasant waft of her onion breath.
“He also mentioned the peculiarity of your speech.”
“Look, whatever your name is—”
“Agatha,” the woman supplied helpfully.
“Fine. Agatha.” Martha planted her hands on her hips. “Let’s not waste one another’s time, hmm? Say whatever it is the Evil Earl or Anselm paid you to say, and then go. I’m not in the mood for fun and games.”
“Very well.” Agatha’s smile faded. She looked into Martha straight in her eyes. “Then listen to your husband’s words: I love you, my Martha. Forgive me for the manner in which we parted. I was not myself—”
Martha closed her eyes, shutting Agatha out. Could it be him? She so desperately wanted to believe it. Hugging her arms about herself, she listened.
“I am coming for you. Try to curb your tongue, my love. Smile at those you would rather curse. Do whatever it takes to survive until the day I find you again. If you still suspect the integrity of your message bearer, remember this: I am not Tony. Perhaps your Aunt Lulu might approve of me?”
Her legs crumbled beneath her, and she sank to the floor, sobbing into her hands. It was him all right. She might have mentioned Aunt Lulu to a couple of people, but only Vadim knew about Tony, her cheating, scumbag of an ex. Agatha’s words swept away the veil in her mind, and suddenly she could see Vadim’s eyes again, black and brooding.
“There is one thing more,” Agatha said, patting Martha’s shoulder.
Martha looked up at her. “W-what’s that?”
Agatha knelt on the floor beside her, grimacing as though the movement caused her discomfort. “Bad hips,” she muttered. “Curse this damp-infested castle.”
Martha sniffed and wiped her sleeve over her eyes. “That’s the rest of the message?”
“No. That is my affliction.”
“Oh.” Despite herself, Martha smiled. “Sorry. So what is it?”
“Forge sends his love—”
How she missed that dog and his ever-cheerful face, but at least he was safe with Vadim.
“And then, there’s this.” Agatha put her hand in a deep pocket of her gown and pulled out a small dagger, its blade covered by a plain leather sheath. She handed it to Martha. “To be used only if your life is in the gravest peril.”
Martha recognized the dagger. It was the blade Vadim had used to cut her free from her stays on their wedding day. That man of hers certainly loved his sharp and pointy things. Turning the sheath over, she saw he’d attached two thin strips of leather to the back of it.
“He thought you could wear it somewhere… inconspicuous.”
Martha frowned. As much as she despised the earl, she couldn’t imagine plunging cold, deadly steel into his body. The thought revolted her as much as he did.
“I c-can’t.” Martha shook her head and held out the dagger for Agatha to take. “I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but I just—”
“Hush. I know.” Agatha smiled. Curving her hand around Martha’s, she gently folded her fingers around the dagger’s leather sheath. “I told him as much myself. Hold onto the blade, m’lady. Tuck it beneath your bed and draw comfort from knowing it is there, just as Vadim takes heart from knowing you have it.”
Put like that, how could she refuse?
Martha stuffed the dagger into her skirt pocket. Taking a deep breath she got up from the floor and extended her hand down to Agatha.
“Most kind.”
With Martha’s aid, and several pained grunts, the older woman was finally back on her feet.
“When did you see him?” Martha asked. “Is he all right? When is he coming for me?” There was so much she wanted to know, now that she believed Agatha was a friend.
“Ask me no questions, and I shall not be forced to lie to you, my dear. Know only this: I never saw a man so intent on reclaiming his woman.” She chuckled, and this time Martha didn’t recoil from the close proximity of her onion breath.
Until the guard returned, they sat beside the fire and talked. Now that the barrier of mistrust was gone, Martha enjoyed Agatha’s company. She was part of Vadim’s world. Part of him.
Speaking in low, hurried voices, always fearful of being overheard, Martha learned that Agatha was a member of one of the deposed noble families. Now she worked in the kitchens of one of the very castles where she’d once been received as an honored guest.
Her husband was dead, and her sons had been overseas for the past few years, accompanying Rodmar, the wannabe king. No matter how much she tr
ied, Martha couldn’t share Agatha’s enthusiasm for the uprising that lay ahead. Instead, she smiled politely and said nothing. What was the point? No matter how long she lived here, she’d always be a woman of the twenty-first century. She’d never share their love of battle.
“I think Vadim has done well for himself,” Agatha said at last, helping herself to some of the ale that the guard had delivered. She looked Martha up and down. “You suit him nicely. Tell me, do you still have that old dress of mine?”
Martha blinked. “Not the gray one? That was yours?” She almost laughed. So this is Vadim’s mystery woman! The femme fatale of her imagination who had driven her half crazy with jealousy. “I still have it,” she said, “back in Darumvale though it’s a little… weathered now.”
“It matters not. I donated it to the cause long ago, but it amused me to learn who was wearing it. I doubt it will fit you now though, m’lady.”
It was true. Martha was much slimmer than she’d been on her arrival in this world. The simple diet and hard lifestyle had played havoc with her womanly curves, which wasn’t a bad thing.
The sound of heavy bootsteps and men’s voices approached the door. Martha and Agatha exchanged glances.
“I am not certain when I shall next see your man,” Agatha whispered, “but do you have a message for him?”
A message? Enough words to write a novel tumbled around in Martha’s head, but all she could manage was: “Tell him I love him, that I’m waiting for him, and I miss him so much.” Her eyes welled with more hot tears. A key turned in the door lock. “Oh, and tell him not to get himself killed again. I couldn’t bear it.”
Agatha smiled and squeezed Martha’s hand. “Courage, m’lady,” she murmured as the door swung open. “You have more friends here than you know.” With that, she got up and glared at the surly guard. “About time too. I do have other duties this day.” She inclined her head respectfully toward Martha. “Your silk gown will be ready in a few days. Farewell for now, m’lady.”
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