Scoundrel of Dunborough (2 page)

“Did no one see any signs that she should fear him?”

“He was a fierce-looking fellow, but nobody ever thought Duncan MacHeath would hurt her. Surely she didn’t, either, or she would have sent him away.”

“Then there was no sign of his feelings for her? No hint that he might be jealous?”

“The man gave no sign of any feelings at all. He was a silent, sullen fellow.”

“Where did my sister meet him? How did she come to hire him?”

“York, I believe. I don’t think she ever told anyone here in Dunborough how he came to be in her employ.”

Gerrard braced himself for more questions that would be difficult or uncomfortable to answer, but fortunately, Celeste seemed satisfied. She began to move around the room, putting the remaining furniture back in place. With a sorrowful sigh that touched his heart, she ran her hand over the unfinished needlepoint on a stand beside the window. Audrey had been skilled at needlework, among other things.

He wondered what Celeste planned to do now. The burial had been weeks ago. “I suppose you’ll be returning to Saint Agatha’s.”

“Not for a few days,” she replied. She made a graceful sweeping gesture. “I shall have to deal with all of this first.”

Of course. The land was held by the lord of Dunborough, but the house and its contents were hers, with a portion to go to the overlord. “Roland might waive the heriot, considering.”

“What should be paid will be paid, and the rest I shall give to the church.”

“You’re welcome to reside at the castle for as long as necessary.”

She shook her head. “I thank you for the offer, but I don’t wish to impose.”

“I assure you, you won’t be.” He gave her a smile. “I’m happy to offer the hospitality of Dunborough to an old friend.”

“Again I thank you, but I would rather stay here until the house is sold.”

“You brought servants with you?”

“No, I need none.”

“You came
alone
?”

“Yes.”

“What the devil was your mother superior thinking?” he demanded, appalled. The roads and byways were dangerous for a woman alone, especially a beautiful one, even if she was a nun. “Did she have no fears for your safety?”

In spite of his shocked and angry tone, Celeste remained remarkably calm. “I was never in any danger, nor did I ever have to walk far. Many farmers and carters are happy to help a nun, and many a nobleman and innkeeper pleased to give one shelter while asking nothing in return, just as you have done.”

Although it took considerable effort, Gerrard managed to subdue his temper. “Be that as it may, you can’t stay here alone, and none of Audrey’s servants will come back to the house. They think it’s haunted.”

“As I told you, I need no servant, and even if Audrey’s spirit does still linger here, I am quite safe. Alive or dead, she would never hurt me.”

Gerrard felt like a fool for mentioning any supernatural concern, especially when there were other, more worldly reasons she couldn’t spend the night alone in that house. “Rumors of your father’s hidden wealth might tempt outlaws and thieves.”

She sighed, but otherwise remained the same. “I suppose that’s to be expected. Nevertheless, I’m not leaving. The locks are strong and God will protect me.”

God? God had not been here to save Audrey. “Just in case He is otherwise occupied, I must insist you come to the castle as my guest.”

Her expression turned wary and suspicious, a look he unfortunately recognized. Women who’d heard the worst of him looked at him like that. Then he remembered who else was at Saint Agatha’s.

“You will be quite safe there. I give you my word.”

He steeled himself for another refusal.

That did not come. Instead, she spoke as if she’d been agreeable all along. “Very well, and thank you.”

He tried not to show his relief as he held out his arm to escort her.

She did not take it.

Instead, with her expression as placid as if they were in a cathedral, she walked out of the chamber.

At least she’d finally seen sense, he told himself as he followed her outside. He went to his men and ordered them to continue to the castle, and told the fair-haired Hedley to take Snow to the stable for him.

By the time he’d done that, Celeste was at an outbuilding at the far end of the yard.

As he hurried to join her, Gerrard still couldn’t quite believe she was there. When she hadn’t arrived in the days after Audrey’s death, he’d assumed she never would. Now here she was, and staying in the castle, too.

He wasn’t the only one who’d changed. Celeste had been a lively little elf of a child who skipped and danced more than she walked, and laughed and sang. She’d had freckles and long brown hair that curled as if it had a life of its own.

Maybe it was long under that cap, veil and wimple. Or maybe it had been shorn to the scalp.

Not that it mattered what her hair was like, or how beautiful she was, even if she was more lovely than Audrey had been, something he hadn’t foreseen.

She was a nun here to sell her family’s goods and house, and then she would return to the convent.

When he reached her, she regarded him quizzically. “Where is Audrey’s horse? She liked to ride, so I’m sure she had one.”

“She had two and they were taken to the castle stables for safekeeping until we learned what you wanted done with them. Roland was going to ask you.”

“I’ll pay you for their keep.”

He gave her another smile as he shook his head. “No need. Roland can afford it.” Gerrard held out his arm again. “It will be my pleasure to escort you to the castle.”

She didn’t decline, but neither did she touch the arm he offered. Instead, she once again left him to fall into step beside her.

No doubt she wasn’t used to walking with a man.

* * *

From his hiding place behind a tree at the side of the D’Orleau house, Lewis watched the smug, arrogant Gerrard and the nun walk toward the village. He’d seen the patrol stop and suspected they were looking for thieves.

If outlaws were inside, they’d be sorry they tried to steal from that accursed place, the slender youth thought. Whatever other people believed, Sir Roland or his brother probably wouldn’t be any more merciful than their father.

He’d nearly fallen over when Gerrard had come out of the house with a nun. Then he remembered that Audrey D’Orleau had a sister who’d been sent to a convent because she’d dared to attack Gerrard for cutting off her hair. That was probably who it was.

Lewis left his hiding place and followed the couple to the village. He ducked into an alley and hurried past the buildings lining the green, including his father’s shop. That way he was able to get ahead of them and come out near the smithy, where he could see her face.

She was beautiful! Even more beautiful than Audrey! Indeed, she was far too beautiful to be a nun.

Maybe she wasn’t a nun and maybe she wasn’t Audrey’s sister. Maybe she was a thief in disguise, come to search for the treasure. Gerrard must not think so, though, or he would have had her taken to the dungeon. Or perhaps he wouldn’t, since she was young and pretty.

Lewis glanced at the rogue and got another shock. Gerrard looked as stone-faced as his brother. Usually he was all easy, affable charm when he was with a pretty girl.

Maybe then she really was a nun. Lewis almost laughed aloud to think of how disappointed the lecherous Gerrard must be if that was so.

On the other hand, given what Gerrard’s father had been like, the lout might still try to have his way with her although she was a bride of Christ.

He’d tried to warn Esmerelda about Gerrard and she’d ignored him. Audrey D’Orleau hadn’t been worth his help, despite her beauty.

Surely, Lewis thought, it was his Christian duty to protect this pretty, holy woman, this lovely creature undoubtedly too innocent and naive to see Gerrard as he truly was, even if he was only the chandler’s son.

Chapter Two

A
s Celeste and Gerrard walked through the village of Dunborough, she was very aware of the tall, broad-shouldered man striding so confidently beside her. He had always been a bold and merry fellow, ready with a smile, and laughter in his shining brown eyes. Now he looked more like the cold, stern Roland.

Given the passage of time since she had last seen either of them, change was to be expected. She had been twelve years old when she had left Dunborough, and Gerrard and Roland fifteen.

It was also surely to be expected that whispers of surprise and speculation would follow them like a breeze through bracken. No doubt many would wonder who she was and what she was doing there, especially with Gerrard. Some, perhaps, would recognize her, although it had been ten years since she’d been sent to Saint Agatha’s.

She cast her gaze toward the castle. The stronghold had grown more massive in the time that she’d been gone. Even when she lived there, Gerrard’s father had always been adding to it, building more walls and towers, raising the money from the tenants’ labors and merchants’ fees, as well as fines for almost any infraction, no matter how minor.

She tried not to think about Sir Blane or the old days as she walked past the stalls and shops of the village, the smithy with its gaggle of old men outside and the well with a similar group of matrons, all eyeing them with curiosity. A gaggle of children, laughing and giggling, chased an inflated pig’s bladder down a nearby alley. She turned away, ignoring the little pang of loss. The lack of children was a small price to pay for the peace and security of the religious life.

Gerrard was still silent as they reached the outer walls and proceeded through the thick, bossed gates, the grassy outer ward, the inner gate and then the inner ward, beneath the portcullis and through the final gate into the cobblestoned courtyard.

She said nothing, either, even when they reached the great hall.

It was just as huge and barren as she recalled, awe-inspiring in a bone-chilling way. It wasn’t only the size that made it so. There was a central hearth and stone pillars, but no ornamentation of any kind. No pennants, no tapestries, no paint, no carving. The floor was covered in rushes and she could smell the fleabane, but that was the only herb she could detect. There was no hint of rosemary or anything else to add a pleasant odor.

Hounds of various ages and sizes rushed up to Gerrard and he gave them each a pat before telling them to sit. They did, looking up at him like an adoring chorus about to burst into song.

He had been a favorite of the dogs when he was a boy, too, no doubt because he gave them ample attention of the sort he rarely received from anyone save Eua, a serving woman who had been his nurse, and who had praised and spoiled him.

Indeed, the hall was so little changed, Celeste half expected to see Sir Blane seated on the dais, with his cruel features and even crueler sneer while he berated his sons.

She removed her cloak as a maidservant appeared from the entrance to the kitchen. The woman was young and not unattractive, slender and with chestnut-brown hair, the sort of girl a parent would have kept far from the hall of Dunborough when Sir Blane and his eldest son, Broderick, were alive.

More surprising still, the maidservant merely nodded when Gerrard asked her to bring refreshments. She didn’t blush or smile at him as she took Celeste’s cloak.

Not that it mattered to her if Gerrard was carrying on with a servant. If he were, he would be no different from most men of his rank. As for the other things she’d heard about him, rumors were often exaggerations, if not outright lies.

And poor Esmerelda might have been mistaken about where she was to meet him, or if she was to meet him at all. Given her own youthful infatuation with the handsome, merry Gerrard, Celeste could easily imagine a girl misinterpreting his words or intentions.

“Now then, this is better, isn’t it?” he said with a familiar smile as they sat on finely carved chairs on the dais and the maidservant brought wine, bread and cheese. “Please, have some wine. It’s very good. I’m working my way through Father’s cellar.”

Celeste accepted the wine and took a grateful sip. It was indeed very good wine, which meant it was a hundred times better than anything she’d had at the convent. The mother superior kept all the best wine for herself or her favorites. The rest got much cheaper fare.

“It’s been a long time,” Gerrard said after he took a drink of wine, fixing his brown-eyed gaze upon her in a way that made her grateful for the nun’s habit she wore.

“I heard about your father and Broderick,” she said, knowing better than to offer him any sympathy for their demise.

Gerrard gave a little shrug with his right shoulder, as he used to do when they were children. “Then I suppose you know Roland is lord of Dunborough now.”

She was surprised at how calm he sounded. “Yes, I did hear that.”

“And that Roland is married?”

“Yes.”

She had been even more surprised by that news. Audrey had often said Roland would have to marry a statue to find a wife as cold and stern as he, and Celeste had not disagreed.

“He’s not here at the moment. He’s at his wife’s estate recovering from the wounds he got fighting Audrey’s killer.”

Gerrard didn’t sound overly concerned. Nevertheless, she remembered what he’d said at the house, about Audrey’s bodyguard nearly killing Roland. She’d been too overwhelmed by all that he had told her to inquire about Roland’s state then. “So he
will
recover?”

“Yes. I’m garrison commander in charge of Dunborough until he returns.”

Being the temporary lord was better than nothing, she supposed, although she nevertheless found it hard to believe that Gerrard could be so apparently accepting of his lower status.

“Things are better between us now,” he added.

Much better, it seemed. “So Roland won’t be angry if you drink all the best wine.”

Gerrard laughed softly. As much as she’d remembered, she had forgotten the sound of his laughter and the way it seemed to brighten everything around him.

“It would take years to do that,” he assured her, “even if I drank as much as I used to.”

She had heard that he drank to excess, among other sins, so that was not a surprise. The surprise was that he was willing to admit it.

“Enough of what’s happened here in Dunborough,” he said. “I have some questions of my own to ask.”

The last thing she wanted was to be interrogated by Gerrard. It would be worse than facing the mother superior at her most irate.

Celeste got to her feet. “If you don’t mind, Gerrard, I’m quite tired and would like to rest.”

A flash of irritation crossed his leanly handsome features and she waited for a protest.

Instead, he rose and called to the maidservant who had brought the refreshments. “Lizabet, show Sister Celeste to Roland’s chamber.”

He turned back to regard her with those brilliant dark brown eyes. “Or are you Sister Something Else?”

She kept her composure and silently prayed for forgiveness for the lie she was about to tell, along with her other recent sins. “I am Sister Augustine now.”

“Until later, then, Sister.”

“Yes, until later,” she agreed as she turned to follow the maidservant to the stairs leading to the family chambers.

Despite her answer, though, she had already decided she would not be joining Gerrard in the hall later, or at any time. When she was with him, the past crowded in on her, the memories fresh and vivid, both the good ones and the bad.

Lizabet passed the first door. “That was Sir Blane’s,” she said, her voice hushed as if she thought someone would overhear.

“And that was Broderick’s, the late lord’s eldest son,” she continued as they passed another. “I suppose you heard what happened to him? Killed by a woman! Sir Roland’s wife’s cousin. I can hardly imagine it.”

“A woman?” Celeste repeated, unable to hide her surprise.

Gerrard’s older brother had been a big man and a bully, fierce and cruel. To think that any woman had been able to—”

“Aye, it’s true. He was about to kill the man Lady Mavis’s cousin loved, and Lady Thomasina killed Broderick instead.”

Sister Sylvester once said that a loved one in trouble could give a person great and unforeseen strength. It seemed that she was right. “From what I remember of Broderick, I find it difficult to be sorry, however he met his end.”

Lizabet slid Celeste a questioning glance. “You know the family?”

“In a way. I’m Audrey D’Orleau’s sister.”

The young woman came to a startled halt. “I—I’m sorry, Sister!” she stammered.

She didn’t wait for Celeste to respond, but quickly continued on their way.

“This chamber is Gerrard’s when he sleeps here,” she said, hurrying past another door, “and this is Sir Roland’s.” Lizabet opened the last door in the corridor and stood aside to let Celeste enter.

The room was a far cry from the way she’d imagined any chamber of Roland’s. She’d been expecting bare walls and few amenities, something Spartan in keeping with his cold, stern demeanor. Instead, there were tapestries on the wall, linen shutters as well as wooden ones on the window to keep out the cold, a dressing table and two brightly painted wooden chests for clothing. Against the far wall was the biggest bed Celeste had ever seen, made up with thick blankets and a silken coverlet. The bed curtains were a bright blue damask and there was even a carpet on the floor.

She immediately conjured a vision of a couple in that luxurious bed, a well-built man with shoulder-length hair making love to some faceless naked woman with long, curling brown tresses.

But what price did a woman pay for such luxury?

“Aye, it’s big,” Lizabet said with a smile when she saw where Celeste was looking. “Lady Mavis—Sir Roland’s wife, that is—she asked for a new one the day she got here. Could have heard a cow cough a mile away when she said his bed wasn’t big enough.”

The maidservant blushed and lowered her eyes. “Sorry, Sister. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“It’s all right,” Celeste assured her, turning away to hide her own embarrassed blushes.

“Anything you need, Sister? Other than some warm water to wash?”

“No, that will be enough. Thank you.”

“Then I’ll be back soon with the water and some fresh linen,” Lizabet said, leaving the room.

Celeste immediately removed her cap, veil and constricting wimple. She was relieved to be rid of them and glad to be alone, away from curious people and their stares and whispers, as well as Gerrard and the memories he brought back.

She unpinned her braid and ran her fingers through the thick, waving brown curls. As she did, she wondered what Gerrard would think if he could see her hair. More than once the mother superior had threatened to cut it off. More than once Celeste had avoided that.

It wasn’t that she cherished the long locks so much. Her hair had been a sort of battleground, and every time she kept her curls, she felt the mother superior had lost a battle, although the war wouldn’t be won until she was allowed to take her final vows.

Sighing, Celeste looked down at her hands and thought of all the times she’d tried, usually without success, to braid her sister’s shining hair.

These were the same hands that Audrey had held tight when their father raged at their unhappy mother, proof that marriage was no sanctuary. The same hands that had scrubbed and cleaned and been clasped in prayer when Celeste displeased the mother superior at the convent, which was almost every day.

The same hands that she hoped would be carrying a cask of gold and jewels when she returned to Saint Agatha’s, if what her father had said was true and he had hidden treasure in the house. She would present the cask to the bishop and tell him it was for the church on the condition that the mother superior be sent to a convent as far away from Saint Agatha’s as possible. Then life at Saint Agatha’s would be perfect. She would be safe and at peace, out of the world that had so much conflict and misery.

First, though, Celeste had to find her father’s hidden hoard, and soon, in case the mother superior came looking for her.

Not that she regretted running away. She’d had no choice about that, for the mother superior never should have forbidden her to come back after her sister had died. Celeste was only sorry she’d stolen Sister Sylvester’s habit, even though that, too, had been necessary, for safety on the road. As for claiming to be a nun, that was for safety, too.

Especially when she saw the look in Gerrard of Dunborough’s eyes. She didn’t want to be the object of any man’s lust.

And certainly not his.

* * *

Norbert regarded his son with scornful disbelief as they stood in his shop, surrounded by candles of various sizes.

“Your eyesight must be going, boy,” the well-dressed chandler sneered. “Gerrard and a nun? I’d as soon believe you could make a decent wick.”

“I saw her myself,” Lewis insisted, his tall, thin frame slightly hunched as if to protect himself from a blow. “They were coming from Audrey D’Orleau’s house. Maybe she’s her sister come to look for the treasure.”

Norbert gave his pockmarked son a sour look. “There’s no treasure in that house and you’re a fool if you think so. And if that
is
Audrey’s sister, she’s probably come to sell the house and all the furnishings and maybe her sister’s clothes, too. After all, a nun won’t have any use for them.”

Norbert stroked his beardless chin. “Put up the shutters. It’s nearly time to close up for the day, anyway.”

Lewis stared at him, dumbfounded, and wasn’t fast enough to avoid the slap that stung his cheek.

“What are you gawking at, boy?” his father demanded.

“You’ve never closed the shop early before.”

“I am today.” His father licked his palm and smoothed down what remained of his hair, then straightened the leather belt around his narrow waist and long, dark green tunic. “I’m going to the castle to find out if that woman is Audrey’s sister, and if she is, to offer my condolences.”

“But you said Audrey was no better than a whore who got what she deserved.”