Eleanor sorted through the stack that she’d brought, and held up something long and white. “This will do,” she said. “Shall I help you?”
“Yes, please,” Marguerite said. The friendliness of the child continued to surprise her, especially after her brother’s antagonistic behavior, and Marguerite felt fortunate that there was at least one gracious person at Norwyck Keep. She did not know if she’d ever needed a friend before, but ’twas clear she needed one now.
Bart took a long swallow of ale as he stood by the fire in the great hall. He’d finished removing his armor, but still wore the soaked and stained undertunic and hose he’d had on all through the night of battle. The rain had not let up, and still there were bodies lined up under a tarp on the beach. Huge piles of debris as well as valuables were under guard down by the sea, and a half-blind woman with no memory lay wounded in his tower.
If she could be believed.
He doubted it. He had to give her credit for a gifted imagination, though. Who would ever have thought of such a ploy? A lost memory.
He shook his head and laughed grimly. She would not be able to keep up the farce for long. ’Twas likely her ship was a Scottish one, and she was afraid to admit her identity.
Bart turned when he heard footsteps approaching. ’Twas young Kathryn, who seemed to suffer most after William’s death, and from what she understood of Felicia’s betrayal.
“Bartholomew,” she said, her expression grave. “Eleanor is in the tower room.”
“I told her to stay out—”
“Yes, but does she ever listen to anyone?” Kathryn asked disdainfully. She tossed her long blond braid behind her, then followed her brother as he crossed the hall and started up the stairs. “She will not mind me, but goes about, doing as she pleases.”
“She’s young, Kate,” Bart said, trying to rouse an interest in his sister’s concerns. Yet the only thing he cared about was that Ellie was in the woman’s room. The stranger could be a Scottish assassin, for all he knew. Odder things had happened in recent months, and Bart was not about to take a chance with Eleanor’s safety.
He reached the tower room and threw open the door.
“Bartie!” Eleanor cried.
“What did I tell you about coming up here?” he demanded.
The woman slipped back under the blankets, while Ellie crossed her arms and slammed them down over her chest. Annoyance colored the glance she threw at Kathryn, even as her red curls quivered with anger. “I was just helping Lady Marguerite—”
“Ah, she has a name, has she?”
“Nay. We just gave her the queen’s name,” Ellie replied. “To use until she remembers her own.”
He looked over at “Marguerite.” Her lips were pressed tightly together, and from the rapid rise and fall of the covers on the bed, he could tell she was breathing heavily.
“You two leave,” he said, “and I’ll help Lady Marguerite.”
“But, Bartie—”
“No arguments, or you’ll dine on bread and water for a week,” he said menacingly, though ’twas a familiar warning. Bart threatened Eleanor so often that it had become something of a jest between them.
“Lady Marguerite needs my help!”
“I’m afraid she will have to do without it,” Bart said as he glanced toward the beautiful lady in the bed. “This time, she will have to be satisfied with mine.”
Chapter Three
Marguerite had barely pulled the soft chemise over her head when her chamber door had burst open and Lord Norwyck had stormed in.
She shifted under the covers and pulled the flimsy cloth down over her legs. This way, at least, she did not feel quite so vulnerable.
“Lady Marguerite, eh?”
“Eleanor suggested it, since I still cannot remember my own name.”
“Shall we call you ‘your highness’, or will ‘my lady’ do?”
“Are you always so caustic, my lord?” she asked haughtily, “or do I have the sole pleasure of evoking your ire?”
“Liars always have that effect upon me,” he replied, “even beautiful ones.”
Marguerite wished she could see his features clearly. She could only tell that he was tall and broad shouldered, and his hair was dark. His voice was deep and resonant, his accent pleasant, and there was a softness to his tone when he spoke to his sisters.
’Twas distinctly harsh when he spoke to her.
A bright flash of light from within seared her eyes. Closing them tightly, she flinched with the pain. Nausea roiled in her belly and she swallowed repeatedly, unwilling to embarrass herself before Lord Norwyck.
“God’s bones, woman,” he said, plucking a bowl from the table near her bed, “haven’t you got the sense to seek a basin when you—”
She turned and retched into it, barely conscious of his hand upon her shoulder, gently pulling her over. She did not think it possible to feel any worse, and still live.
She fell back and suppressed a groan. Suddenly, a cool cloth was upon her lips, then soothing her brow. Tears seeped from her eyes.
He remained silent, and if not for his touch, Marguerite would not have known he was there. She did not want to feel any comfort from this stern, unyielding man, yet the warmth of his hand on her chilled flesh sent shivers through her. Mayhap he was not as grim as he wanted her to think.
“I’ll send a maid up to sit with you,” Lord Norwyck said. His voice was devoid of emotion, and Marguerite was glad she had shown none, either. She was sure those tears had only been the result of her violent retching, not because of the fear or helplessness she felt. She did not really need his presence or any reassurance from him to know she would survive.
When she heard his footsteps retreating, and the sound of the chamber door closing, Marguerite nearly convinced herself she felt relieved.
Weary after the long night of battle and chase, Bartholomew left Marguerite in the tower and returned to the great hall.
’Twas insanity to allow her appearance of vulnerability to affect him. She was just a woman, clearly a deceitful one at that. Bart knew all about falling for a dishonest woman. ’Twas not something that would ever happen again.
He crossed the hall and made his way to the study, a warm and cheerful chamber at the southeast corner of the hall.
“My lord.” Sir Walter Gray stood as Bartholomew entered the room.
“Don’t get up, Sir Walter.” The white-haired knight was as weary as any of the men who’d fought all night.
Walter had lived at Norwyck more than thirty years, serving as steward for Bartholomew’s father. He was something of a revered uncle to the Holton sons, and had helped to manage estate matters after their father’s death, while Will and Bart were fighting in Scotland. Sir Walter was Bartholomew’s most trusted advisor. “The last of the men have returned from their northern foray.”
“Any luck cornering Lachann or his son?” Bart asked as he dropped into a chair across from the older man.
The old knight shook his head. “They gave chase all the way to Armstrong land, but were rebuffed by archers when they approached the keep.”
“Did we lose any men?”
“Not this time.”