Suzanne Robinson (25 page)

“I know not who she is,” Tristan said, “but she’s French and would make a most useful prisoner.”

He sucked in his breath and pressed his hand over his wound. Sweat beaded on his forehead as color drained from his face.

Pen found her tongue at last. “Tristan, how do you fare?” She looked to Christian. “Will he be well?”

“If we care for him at once.” He tried to open Tristan’s clothing with one hand.

Tristan seized his wrist with a bloody hand. “Derry, how fares Derry?”

“Marvelous well, my raven. Why?”

Letting out a sigh, Tristan swayed, winced, and shook his head.

Pen plucked at the folds of doublet over the wound. “Tristan, I don’t understand. Why were you trying to kill that woman? The queen’s man said—”

She cringed at the scalding glance he turned on her. The tendons and muscles of his jaw worked, and he grimaced with pain. He was growing more and more pale as the moments passed.

“God’s blood, you tried to kill me. Go back to your island, witch.”

“But, Tristan—”

“Get out of my sight!”

Pen gasped at the furor behind that shout. The strain of it showed as Tristan’s features contorted with
pain. He sagged against Christian, who slipped his arm around Tristan’s waist and supported him almost completely.

“You seem befuddled, lady,” Christian said. “Morgan was trying to stop that woman from murdering Secretary Cecil, but this is no time for quarreling. Morgan needs tending at once.”

Dazed, Pen helped Christian support his friend. “Morgan? He is Morgan?”

“Aye, of course,” Christian said as they carried the wounded man toward the stair. “Ah, there you are, Rochefort. Help me. And have your men tend to our lady murderer over there.”

The silver-haired man sheathed his sword, gestured for the men behind him to attend the assassin, and took Pen’s place. Pen followed them down the tower stair, up another, and into a bedchamber. She watched them lower Morgan to the bed and wrung her hands. More men-at-arms posted themselves at the door, but Pen paid them no attention. She went to the bed and shouldered her way between Rochefort and Christian.

The three men stopped talking when she joined them. Through his grimaces, Morgan managed to glare at her.

“How did you find me?” He broke off to wince as Christian cut his doublet and shirt from him. “Bleeding hell, Christian! Leave off. I think she’s brought the priest down on us.”

He half rose in the bed and gripped Pen’s sleeve with bloody fingers, drawing her down so that his face almost touched hers. “You came with Jean-Paul, did you not?”

“I—I made him take me here, but I didn’t know. Upon mine honor, I thought you were the priest.”

“Jean-Paul is here?” Christian asked quickly.

Morgan bit his lip and nodded. Christian exchanged glances with Rochefort, who left at a run.

Pen called after him. “I left him senseless by the back wall.”

Christian gently pushed Morgan back onto the bed even as he laughed. “By the rood, Morgan, a goodly jest. You, a priest. Ha!”

“There’s an even goodlier jest.” Morgan lunged upright despite Christian’s restraining arms.

“She claimed to love me. By God’s entrails, she set me afire with her—” He sucked in his breath as a spasm of pain raced through him.

“But when the priest descended upon us with his foul lies, she proved herself faithless. By the cross, her love is easily shaken. It’s a thing of mist and vapor, dissipating with the smallest of breezes. She believed every tale he spouted, even thought me capable of murder. And because she’s so faithless, she tried to kill me!”

Pen’s tears were flowing again. She could hardly bear to look at Morgan’s wound, and he was growing more and more impassioned.

“Please,” she said. “How could I have known?”

“You made love to me,” Morgan said between grinding teeth, “and then you tried to murder me. God, I want to strangle you.”

Morgan tried to sit up again, but Christian held him down.

“Mistress Fairfax,” Christian said. “Pray leave us, for I must dress this wound. I won’t be able to do it if he keeps hopping about like this.”

“Let me whip her first,” Morgan said.

Pen nodded to Christian while biting her quivering lower lip. Turning away, she heard him growl at his friend about seeing how she liked his riding crop.

Christian was trying to soothe him. “Peace, my raven. You shall have your revenge when you’re well.”

Pen left, passing a footman on his way upstairs with water and linens. In the hall she encountered Baron Rochefort, who was at the center of a group of liveried men-at-arms.

“Ah, the lady,” Rochefort said. “Mistress Fairfax, I’ve imprisoned the lady murderer and sent men to search for the priest, but I believe this brood of guinea fowl must be yours.” He waved a hand at a bedraggled and bruised group in one corner of the hall.

“Mistress!” Cap in hand, Dibbler rushed to her. “They say the queen’s man was a priest all along. He punched me in the nose, did that poxy bastard. And then he kicked me. A devilish cruel blow it was. He had the strength of forty men. I told Sniggs to watch him.”

Sniggs scurried over to them. “You did not! And I was watching him, but he was right quick, like the devil’s imp he is. I near got me neck broke when he scared me horse.”

“I did so tell you to watch him,” Dibbler said, swelling.

Pen was too distraught to bear this squabbling. She shook her head and waved a hand at them, but it was a loud male bellow that quieted them.

“Silence,” roared Baron Rochefort. “Get you gone to attend your horses.”

They all shuffled out while Rochefort finished giving orders to the men-at-arms. Soon they were left alone.

“I will show you to a chamber, mistress, and then I must leave you.”

Feeling as if she was in an evil dream, Pen nodded. “The minister, is he well?”

“Aye. The moment we realized there was danger, we dispatched him to one of Christian’s strongholds.”

He conducted her to the threshold of a blue and white chamber. Glancing inside, Pen noticed that Lord Rochefort’s expression had turned even more grim than it had been.

He kept his gaze away from the chamber and addressed her as he left. “I’ll send someone to you.”

Once alone, Pen closed the door to the chamber and sank to her knees, then back on her heels. Doubling over, she burst into tears as she remembered firing the pistol. She saw again the way Tristan’s—no—Morgan’s body jerked with the impact of the shot, how he spun around to give her a look of such incredulity and pain. She cringed at the vision of him collapsing and then, with an unmatched force of will, summoning the strength to face that horrible woman with the golden hair.

Vaguely Pen realized that he’d been telling the truth all along, and that the woman had been the French assassin. She had only wanted to prevent a disaster for her queen and country. She’d been so stalwart in forcing herself to choose duty over love, and instead she’d nearly destroyed both. Over and over the image of Morgan’s agony flashed before her. Pen covered her face with her hands and moaned.

Morgan. Morgan St. John, emissary of her majesty. No, not emissary, but something more, something much more dangerous.

Between bouts of dread over Morgan’s condition, Pen recalled something else—the change she’d seen in him, it was real. He’d been telling her the truth about himself all along. He had said he wasn’t Tristan, and it was Tristan who loved her. He’d said Morgan felt only gratitude.

And now, thanks to her lack of conviction in him and her interference, she’d made him hate her. Had
she destroyed all trace affection in him for her? Oh, why couldn’t she have been made like other women who trusted the men they loved blindly? Mayhap she’d been made too wary by what had befallen her before she took refuge on Penance.

Tears snaked down her cheeks, and Pen wiped them with the backs of her hands as she sat on the floor. Through the machinations of that evil priest, she’d betrayed and hurt Tristan. Holy Mother, would he forgive her? Pen felt the heat of her body drain from her as she remembered Tristan’s rage. Terrifying to behold, it had nearly sent her fleeing from the room with its force.

She had been wrong, but not by design. Surely he would understand that once he’d calmed. And she would have to begin to know him anew. If he would allow it. He wanted nothing of her at the moment, yet she had no choice but to remain. For he held her heart, and even if she so desired, she couldn’t leave it and him.

Yes, she would remain and hope that Morgan’s rage would ebb enough for her to convince him to allow her to make atonement. She sniffed and began to search her costume for a kerchief. A knock startled her, and she let in the scullery boy from the kitchen. He bore a pitcher of water and bathing cloths. Setting them on a sideboard, he pointed to a wardrobe.

“Prithee, lady. His lordship said there be garments for you in there.” Smiling shyly, he bowed and ran out of the room.

Worried about Morgan, Pen snatched the first bodice and kirtle that met her hand. She washed quickly and donned the garments, which were of white silk shot with silver. The tight undersleeves and the fitted bodice gave her trouble.

She found shoes, but they were too large, and she resorted to her riding boots. She nearly tripped over the kirtle until she found a farthingale of buckram that made it stand out enough. For warmth she had just pulled on a fitted overgown of black trimmed with pearl and jet, when another knock heralded the entrance of the man called Christian de Rivers.

“Is he well?”

“Aye, mistress, and resting.” He led her to sit on a stool by the cold fireplace. “I had to force a sleeping draught down his throat, the stubborn little canker. So now, with my men and Rochefort’s hieing themselves across the countryside, it is time for you and me to talk. Explain yourself, Mistress Fairfax. Why have you nearly murdered my sweet raven?”

Pen looked up at him. “I pray you, sir. Why should I tell you?”

“Marry, lady, because I near killed myself fostering that lad, and in a few weeks’ time you seem to have undone much of my work.” He paused to study her before saying softly, “And because you must.”

Pen narrowed her eyes and contemplated the man standing before her. What convinced her wasn’t the sword master’s body, or those hotly violet eyes fringed with heavy lashes, or his habit of ruthlessness in language that reminded her of Morgan at his worst. What convinced her was the certainty with which he said those last words—because you must. There had been no trace of supplication. And he waited for her to answer as though there had never been any doubt that she would comply. Whoever this man was, she knew he had the right to command.

Having surmised his authority, Pen began to confide her story. When she finished, Christian made no comment. He appeared to lapse into deep contemplation,
leaving her to wonder if he believed her. Then, suddenly, he chuckled.

“God’s eyebrows. Only Morgan could rise from the sea in spite of hell’s own thunderclaps and foil a murder plot designed by that catamite of Satan, Jean-Paul.” He grinned at her. “And find a cunning lady possessed of phantasms and charms as well.”

Pen grew alarmed. “I’m not a witch, Lord Montfort.”

“As you say.”

“I’m not!”

“My sweet raven says you are. He was perilous adamant about it just before he succumbed to the sleeping draught.”

Pen pursed her lips, clasped her hands in her lap, and refused to answer.

He chuckled again. “Don’t fret, sucket. I blame you not for Jean-Paul’s machinations. He’s a dragon breathing flame upon the kingdom, a master of deception, as you well know from that forgery of his. I’ve lost several good men to him.”

“Trist—Morgan says I should have believed in him rather than trusting the priest,” Pen said.

Christian leaned against the mantel. “Ah, yes, Morgan. Morgan, my dear sucket, has had a surfeit of betrayal in his life. Though your mistake wasn’t of your own making, he feels only the hurt, and the pain blinds him to reason.”

For the first time since her ordeal began back on Penance Isle, Pen smiled. To her delight, Christian returned her smile.

“He’s a stubborn arrogant,” she said. “And seeks to ply me as he does his sword, but I love him. I begin to think that storm brought him to Penance for me apurpose.”

Christian whistled softly. “Christ, lady. If this is how
you deal with him, I shall tell him to surrender the moment he wakes.”

“None of these disasters you speak of have been my doing.”

“Not the pig?”

“He told you about Margery?”

“Nor being tossed down a well?”

“Only half tossed!” Pen glowered at him. “Saints. I vow he must have chattered like a squirrel while you dressed his wound.”

“
Ranted
seems a better word.”

Pen covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers but couldn’t hide her smile. “You should have seen his face when he first saw Margery.”

They grinned at each other.

“When may I see him?” she asked.

“He should wake upon the morrow. His wound is clean and quite shallow, and no bones have been damaged. His body will heal quickly, but I fear his heart and his temper won’t.”

“I shall woo both.”

“I shall witness your progress with interest,” Christian said.

Although Christian assured her there was no need, Pen kept watch over the sleeping Tristan throughout the night. Finally she fell asleep in her chair with her head resting near his shoulder on the bed. She woke late the next morning when he stirred beside her. As she rose, he tossed his head and tried to shove away the sheets and blankets that covered him.

Flushed, he opened his eyes when she drew the covers back over him. Pen touched his cheek and found it hot. His lips pressed together, and she could tell he was fighting pain.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

“Naught but to care for you, Trist—Morgan.”

At the name, he cursed and lifted himself on his elbows. The covers fell away, revealing smooth brown flesh and bandages. Pen glanced at his bare shoulders, the long line of his chest as it tapered toward his hips, then met his angry gaze. As they looked at each other, his eyes began to glitter, and a slow, torrid smile crept over his lips.