Scoundrel of Dunborough (3 page)

Scowling, his father raised his arm and Lewis immediately moved out of reach. “Don’t you dare repeat anything I said about Audrey D’Orleau to anybody,” Norbert warned, “or you’ll feel the back of my hand.”

“I won’t say a word,” his son promised. “I wonder what Ewald will do when he hears about her.”

Norbert’s eyes widened. If he hadn’t considered that, Lewis thought, his father was the fool, not him.

“It would be like that lout to try to see her first,” Norbert muttered, although he was clearly preparing to do the same thing.

“She might be tired after her journey and unwilling to talk about business so soon after she’s arrived,” Lewis suggested.

Norbert frowned. “You may be right—for once,” he grudgingly acknowledged. “Ewald probably won’t be so thoughtful. On the other hand, if that
is
Audrey’s sister, I wouldn’t want him to get the house for a pittance. What does a woman, let alone a nun, know about the value of things? Now get those shutters up. I’m going to the castle.”

* * *

“Aye, a nun and the prettiest one I ever saw,” Lizabet said as she got a ewer for hot water in the kitchen. “And she says she’s Audrey D’Orleau’s sister!”

Baskets of beans and peas, lentils and leeks, were on low shelves nearby. On higher shelves were the spices, some very expensive indeed, for Sir Blane had liked fine food, at least for himself. Doors led into the larder and the buttery, another to the hall, and there were stairs for the servants to the family chambers.

“Audrey D’Orleau’s sister?” Florian, the cook, cried, looking up from the pastry he was rolling on the large, flour-covered table. He was of middle height, not exactly fat but not slim, either, and could have been any age from twenty-five to forty. Tom, the skinny, freckled spit boy, likewise took his attention from the chickens he was turning over the fire in the enormous hearth.

Peg stopped shelling peas into the wooden bowl she had in her lap and rested her forearms on the rim of the bowl, regarding her companions gravely. She was a little older and a little plumper than Lizabet, and a little prettier, too. “Audrey D’Orleau’s sister, eh? That would be Celeste. My ma told me she used to follow Audrey about like a puppy, and Gerrard, too, back in the day. Once, when the girls were at the castle—their father was doing some kind of business with old Sir Blane—Gerrard, rascal that he was, cut off Celeste’s hair almost to her scalp. Something about a game, I think. Anyway, she had a devil of a fit—knocked him down and broke his collarbone. She got sent to Saint Agatha’s after.”

“Must have been some fit,” Lizabet said. “And if she was a hoyden, well, all I can say is the convent’s calmed her down. I can’t imagine the nun up in Sir Roland’s chamber raisin’ her voice, let alone attacking someone.”

“If she’s Audrey’s sister,” Florian pointed out, wiping his forehead with a floury hand, “why didn’t she come here sooner? It’s been weeks since her sister died. Sir Roland sent word after, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” Peg said. “He sent a priest and Arnhelm went with him as escort.” She lowered her voice as if about to reveal something shocking. “Arnhelm told me the mother superior at Saint Agatha’s was the most hard, mean-spirited harridan he’d ever met. When he said why he’d come, she looked at him as if he’d come to sell a loaf of bread, and stale at that.” Peg shook her head and leaned back. “Made Sir Roland look soft, Arnhelm said.”

“God have mercy!” Florian murmured, aghast, while Lizabet’s eyes filled with tears.

“A sister murdered, and to have to hear it from a woman like that!” she exclaimed.

“Aye,” Peg agreed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the mother superior’s fault Celeste took so long to get here. Probably had to say prayers for days.”

“Tom!” Florian cried. “The chickens!”

The spit boy hurried back to his duty, the chickens only slightly charred.

“We had all best get back to work,” the cook added.

Peg returned to shelling the peas and, with a heart full of sympathy, Lizabet took the hot water back to Sir Roland’s chamber.

* * *

Celeste realized something had changed the moment Lizabet returned. She was like a candle that had been snuffed, and Celeste could guess why.

She didn’t want to talk about Audrey, but she had other questions, ones she hoped Lizabet could answer. “I grew up in Dunborough, but I don’t think we’ve ever met. Are you from here, too?” she asked as Lizabet poured warm water from the ewer into the basin on the washstand.

“Aye. My father’s a woodcutter. I came to work in the castle after Sir Blane and Broderick died. Peg and me both. My father wouldn’t let us come before that because of them, although we could have used the wages.”

“Yet he had no such reservations about Sir Roland and Gerrard?”

Lizabet shook her head. “Not once Sir Roland was named the lord. My father was sure he’d see that the servants were safe. And ever since Sir Roland got wounded, Gerrard’s been like a new man. It’s as if he’s seen the error of his ways. O’course, it could be Sir Roland’s wife helped him see that. She wouldn’t put up with any nonsense from Gerrard, that’s for certain.”

“Were you here when Sir Roland came home with his bride?”

“Indeed I was, Sister. We were all that surprised, I must say! Rumor was Sir Roland was going to DeLac to end any talk of an alliance with the lord there, and then he comes home with the man’s daughter as his bride. Verdan—he come with her from DeLac, one of the escort—he said they was all surprised Lady Mavis agreed to the match and didn’t run off. Spirited, she is, Sister. And beautiful, so maybe no wonder Sir Roland wanted her.”

“I remember Sir Roland as a boy, and he didn’t seem the sort of fellow to make a very pleasant husband. If it was a contracted marriage, perhaps his wife felt she had no choice. Indeed, I can find it in my heart to pity her.”

Lizabet’s eyes widened. “Oh, there’s no need for that, Sister! It might have been arranged at the start, but it was a love match, too, for all that. She looks at him like he’s the most wonderful man in the world and he looks at her like she’s an angel come to earth. She’s expecting already.”

That might not be a surprise to Lizabet, but it seemed miraculous to Celeste.

“Verdan says...” Lizabet flushed and looked at her toes. “I’m sorry, Sister, I forgot you were a nun.”

“Can’t you pretend I’m not? And it’s not as if I haven’t heard things in the convent from the other women. Some of them are widows.”

The maidservant looked around furtively, as if about to divulge a state secret. “Verdan says they go at it like rabbits, even in the woods one time where anybody might have seen them.”

Now it was Celeste’s turn to blush, and blush she did as she envisioned not Roland, but Gerrard, making love with a woman in the woods to assuage their carnal desires. Yet when desire died, what was left?

Celeste decided she’d asked enough questions. “I’m rather tired, Lizabet, and fear I’ll be very poor company tonight. I’d rather take my meal here. Please convey my regrets to Gerrard.”

Lizabet bit her lip and her brows contracted.

“If you’d rather not tell Gerrard—”

“No, no, it’s no trouble, Sister,” Lizabet replied, although her attitude implied otherwise.

Celeste gave the nervous maidservant a reassuring smile. “I shall tell him myself. Is he still in the hall?”

“I think he’s in the outer ward with some of the men, Sister.”

“Then I shall go to him there.”

Chapter Three

S
tripped to the waist and crouching, Gerrard circled his opponent. Gerrard was fast and clever, while Verdan, likewise wearing only breeches and boots despite the chilly air, was big and slow and sometimes clumsy. Nevertheless, Gerrard knew it would be a mistake to think Verdan was too slow to beat him or too stupid to guess his next move.

Other soldiers had formed a ring around the wrestlers, shouting encouragement and advice to both. Gerrard could also hear the wagers being made, albeit in quieter tones, especially from those who were betting against him.

“Now then, Verdan,” he said, not taking his eyes from the man’s bearded face, “it’s time we put an end to this, don’t you think? Concede and we can all go have an ale.”

“Aye, give up!” one of the younger, thinner soldiers called out, stamping his feet. “I’m getting bloody cold!”

“Ah, shut yer gob,” another, with darker hair and clean-shaven, retorted. “Verdan can take him. Show him, Verdan!”

“A southern man beat a Yorkshireman born and bred?” a third demanded, scowling as he crossed thick and powerful arms. “Not likely!”

“He’s got half a head on Gerrard.”

“Half a brain, too. Come on, Gerrard, take him down!”

“Show ’im what a good soldier’s made of, Verdan!”

“Show ’im what a Yorkshireman’s made of!”

Gerrard suddenly feinted left, then dived right, grabbing Verdan around the legs and pulling him down. In the next instant, more cheers went up as Gerrard flipped the big man onto his stomach and sat on his back. Verdan flailed about, trying to grab him, but Gerrard got his arms under his opponent’s and his hands clasped behind Verdan’s neck. The bigger man was helpless.

“I had somethin’ in me eye!” Verdan declared, spitting out bits of grass as he continued to shift from side to side as well as up and down, trying to buck Gerrard off.

“Come, man, you’ve lost,” Gerrard said. “Admit it and let’s go get some ale. I think we’ve both worked up a mighty thirst. And since you’re no doubt exhausted, I’ll excuse you from guard duty tonight.”

“Well, since you put it that way...” Verdan stopped moving and let Gerrard climb off him.

Grinning, Gerrard reached down to help the soldier to his feet. Bets were paid off, some grudgingly, while the two combatants wiped the perspiration from their faces, put on their shirts and tunics, Gerrard’s of wool and Verdan’s of boiled leather. Before the contest, Gerrard had taken a loose bit of thread from the hem of his tunic and tied back his hair to keep it off his face, and he didn’t bother to undo it. “As for the rest of you men, I expect to find all your weapons clean and sharp tomorrow,” he said. “And nobody the worse for drink, myself included,” he added ruefully, earning chuckles from the men, who began to move toward the castle gate.

He clapped a hand on Verdan’s broad shoulder. “So, your mother still won’t come to Yorkshire?”

“Not yet. But Arnhelm and me have hope,” Verdan replied, grinning and revealing unexpectedly good teeth.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gerrard noticed the thin chandler scurrying toward them, his woolen tunic flapping about his ankles, his silk-lined cloak fluttering behind him.

“Sweet Mother Mary, what the devil is he doing here?” he muttered under his breath before he addressed Verdan again. “You go ahead. The chandler must have business to discuss.”

Although what that could possibly be, Gerrard had no idea. He hoped it wouldn’t take long, either. He had never liked the greedy little man who had browbeaten his late wife and treated his son like a lackey.

“Greetings, Norbert,” he said as the panting chandler reached him. “What brings you to the castle?”

“I’ve come to give my condolences to Audrey’s sister. I heard that she had come.”

Gerrard frowned. “Yes, she has, and you wish to speak with Sister Augustine?” he asked as Norbert shifted from foot to foot like a horse nervously awaiting the start of a race.

The last thing Celeste—or anyone—needed was to talk to this fellow, about anything.

“If that’s what Audrey D’Orleau’s sister is called now, yes,” the chandler replied with a hint of defiance.

That was not something to encourage Gerrard to grant his request. “Sister Augustine is resting and cannot be disturbed.”

Norbert frowned and looked far from pleased. His state of mind, however, was not Gerrard’s concern.

“Perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell her I was here,” Norbert said.

“Perhaps,” Gerrard replied with a smile that was not meant to be pleasant.

“Now see here, Gerrard—” Norbert began. He fell silent when he saw the look in Gerrard’s eyes. “Oh, very well!”

The chandler turned on his heel and started back to the inner gate just as it opened to admit another man, this one also richly dressed, but plump and darkly bearded. His tunic was shorter and more embellished, with an embroidered hem and neck. His boots were of fine leather, as were his bossed belt and gauntlet gloves.

Ewald. Of course. The dealer in hides and tallow was as broad and boisterous as Norbert was thin and wheedling, but equally as greedy. The two were like vultures come hurrying to the battlefield, and Celeste a corpse.

“Good day, Gerrard! And you, too, Norbert!” Ewald declared. “Why am I not surprised that you’re here already, Norbert? That nosy son of yours should be a spy for the king.”

“I doubt
you’ve
come to pass the time of day,” Norbert retorted. “You want to see her, too, don’t you?”

Ewald’s cheeks flushed. “Well...” he began, drawing the word out as he rocked back and forth on his heels, his thumbs tucked in his wide leather belt beneath his protruding belly, “as a matter of fact, I do. To give her my sympathy on her sister’s death. A bad business, that, a very bad business.”

Business had nothing to do with it, Gerrard thought sourly. Warped and thwarted love did. “Unfortunately, Sister Augustine is resting and cannot be disturbed,” he said firmly.

Norbert, not surprisingly, continued to scowl, while Ewald, equally not surprisingly, smiled like a man who’d won a bet.

“Tomorrow will do just as well,” the tanner jovially replied. “Tell her I was here, if you will, and I’ll be delighted to speak with her at a time of her convenience. I’ll offer her a very good price for the house.”

“I will do no such thing,” Gerrard said. “You will wait to discuss business with her when she comes to you, and not before. Now I give you good day, gentlemen.”

With a look of sly triumph, Norbert nodded and started toward the gate. Only slightly subdued, Ewald bowed and followed.

Carrion crows, the pair of them, and Gerrard would be damned before he’d tell Celeste that they’d been there. He wasn’t their messenger and she didn’t need to be bothered, he thought as he walked back to the gate.

He came to a startled halt. Celeste—Sister Augustine—was gliding toward him across the grass, the ends of her veil lifting in the breeze. Even in a nun’s habit, she looked like royalty, poised and proud and beautiful.

“I thought you were resting,” he said, baffled by her presence and wondering if he should have let Norbert and Ewald meet her.

“I
am
rather weary,” she replied, her lips set in a thin line, “so if it’s possible, I’d prefer to have the evening meal in Roland’s chamber. Alone.”

He was glad he’d sent the chandler and the tanner away, yet couldn’t help feeling somewhat dismayed by her manner and that she apparently didn’t want to dine with him, either. Still, that might be for the best. She aroused old memories and some of them were best forgotten.And if she hated him, he could hardly blame her. It was his fault she’d been sent to Saint Agatha’s.

“Since you’re a guest, you’re free to do as you like,” he said. “I’ll have the meal and some wine sent up to the chamber in due course.”

She nodded and her lips curved up into a little smile. A very little smile. “Thank you, Gerrard.”

After that, she walked gracefully away, leaving him to ponder what she would think of him if she ever found out
all
that had happened while she was in the convent.

* * *

Later that night, Gerrard sat alone on the dais in the great hall of Dunborough. The evening meal had been served, and most of the soldiers not on guard duty had already returned to the barracks or bedded down on pallets in the hall, along with the ever-present hounds. A few of the household servants were still awake and talking quietly in a corner. The female servants had their own quarters above the kitchen, while the rest either slept in the kitchen or in the loft above the stalls where the grooms and stable boys also bedded down.

Gerrard glanced at the stairs leading to the family chambers. What would Celeste think if she knew about his dealings with her sister? And the offer Roland had made to him?

He had planned to use Audrey’s wealth for his own ends and had even been prepared to marry her to get it, although that hadn’t been his idea. It had been Audrey’s suggestion that he bribe the king to give him Dunborough and a title. When he and Audrey wed, she would have had what she desired most—a powerful and titled husband—and he would have had his heart’s desire, the estate of Dunborough and the power to rule it.

Now Audrey was dead and Roland had another estate, thanks to his marriage, so he had offered Dunborough to Gerrard, pending the king’s approval.

Although Roland was no doubt sincere, Gerrard still couldn’t quite believe that he would willingly give up the estate they both had craved for so long, especially after his father’s will revealed Roland was indeed the elder twin and given the way Gerrard had treated Roland all these years. But he had.

It was tempting to accept Roland’s offer, even though that would mean being beholden to his brother for the rest of his life. And when he remembered that he’d been willing to use Audrey D’Orleau and her wealth to get what he wanted, he felt so ashamed, it seemed better to leave Dunborough and never return.

Yet to give up the chance of being the lord of Dunborough! He had yearned for that for as long as he could remember.

Gerrard abruptly rose and started for the door, grabbing his cloak from a peg before he went out. It did no good to sit and brood. That was the sort of thing Roland would do. Better to be doing something—anything—than mope.

He’d go to the tavern in the village. It was always lively, even at this time of night. There were other places a man could find companionship of a different sort, but he’d given that up along with too much ale.

Gerrard stepped into the yard. A quick glance confirmed that the watchmen were on the wall walk and two guards stood at the gate.

A cold Yorkshire wind sent clouds scudding across the half-moon and he sniffed the air, wondering if it would snow before morning. Hard to say.

How much he hated winter and the cold that forced him to spend too much time indoors! He felt imprisoned when the weather was too bad to ride. Perhaps that was what being in a convent was like, and not only in the winter. Considering that and celibacy, he knew he could never stay in such a place. He would flee at the first opportunity.

A movement near the large oak beside the inner wall caught his eye. Someone clad in a long dark cloak was moving in the shadows near the kitchen.

“You there, what are you doing?” he demanded as he hurried forward.

Celeste—Sister Augustine—stepped out of the shadows. At the same time, one of the soldiers appeared on the wall walk above and the guards at the gate charged toward her.

“All’s well,” Gerrard called to them. “You can go back to your posts.”

They obeyed and he turned to face Celeste, trying not to notice her large eyes or full lips. “You had better stay inside at night. My men are all trained archers. You might have been mistaken for an intruder and shot.”

“Fortunately, I was not.”

Her voice was as placid as her expression. Where
had
that lively, daring girl gone? He would have wagered much that even the nuns couldn’t stifle her vivacity, although apparently they had.

“Is anything the matter?” he asked. “Is there something you require?”

Dolt! If she wanted something, she would go to the hall and summon a servant, not wander about the yard like a lost soul.

“The chamber is very comfortable, thank you,” she replied. “I simply couldn’t sleep. And you?”

“I often check to make sure the watch is awake,” he lied. He never did that. He didn’t have to. His father had severely punished any man caught sleeping at his post, and it was still too soon after his father’s death for the men to realize neither he nor Roland would ever be as cruel.

Celeste nodded at the oak tree. “That’s the tree we climbed that All Hallow’s Eve, isn’t it?”

The memory rose up as vividly as if it had been yesterday. He and Roland had gotten out of the castle by climbing the oak, then slipping out a postern gate, one All Hallow’s Eve. They’d wanted to go to the village to see the bonfire. Audrey and Celeste were already there when they arrived. Audrey claimed she didn’t believe they’d done anything so bold as climb over the castle wall like thieves. Sir Blane must have let them come.

Determined to prove her wrong, Gerrard had suggested that she return with them the same way and spend the night in the hayloft. Roland had been against the idea from the first. It would be too dangerous. She surely couldn’t climb as well and they’d all be caught and punished.

Audrey had laughed at Roland, and Gerrard and she had called him a grumpy old woman and a host of other unflattering names until he gave in.

Celeste had begged to go along and finally they had let her. She had kept up with them, and never made a whimper, even after they were caught, as Roland had predicted. Audrey and Celeste had been escorted home, for their father was too wealthy to offend, while the twins had been beaten and forced to stand until dawn.

“I was so afraid I’d fall,” Celeste murmured, moving back into the shadows.

“You never gave any sign you were afraid,” Gerrard replied, following her. “I thought you were very brave.”

She laughed softly, a sound that roused more memories. Of chasing her through the forest, but never quite catching her. The admiring look in her eyes when he told a funny story. The time he’d suggested they play a kissing game and she had laughed and blushed and run away.