The Baron's Bounty (10 page)

Chapter 10

An hour later Conlin stood in front of the dais of his castle’s chapel with John at his side.

“Thanks for staying in Sandwich longer than you intended, good friend.” Conlin wanted John at his side during the wedding as his witness, so if anything went amiss later on, he’d have a noteworthy baron to back him up that he’d actually gone through with Laird MacEwen’s absurd wishes. It wasn’t a common thing for proxies to consummate the marriage, but still he had to admit that it wasn’t the first time he’d heard of it happening either. However, he never even considered he’d someday be in these shoes. Shoes again, damn it. Now the wench was even getting him to think about shoes. He’d never met anyone like her.

Isobel had managed to make his daughter laugh. That is something he would never forget. He hadn’t heard a laugh out of Rose since before death claimed his wife and newborn son.

As irritating as the Scottish shoe-crazed wench was, he’d admired the fact she’d been able to do something that he had not been able to do for years now. That impressed him but at the same time scared him. He didn’t want Rose taking a true liking to Isobel. If she did, he knew she would be heartbroken when her real stepmother – Lady Catherine, showed up on his doorstep.

“Damn, she looks fine,” whispered John, causing Conlin’s eyes to shoot across the room to see Isobel standing there in his late wife’s wedding gown.

“Where the hell did she get that?” he grumbled, getting a clearing of the throat from the priest in return for his inappropriate choice of words in the chapel.

“Baron Conlin,” called out his squire, stepping around Isobel and hurrying across the small chapel room to join them. “Baron,” he said again, trying to whisper, but face it, the boy had one volume when he talked – loud. “Your daughter wanted Isobel to wear your wife’s wedding gown, so I let her. I hope you don’t mind.” Everyone in the chapel looked up at him and then over to Isobel. Well, it was no longer a mystery as to where she had gotten her gown for the wedding.

“God’s eyes, of course I mind, Toft. What were you thinking?”

One more clearing of the throat from the priest, much louder than the last, reminded Conlin he was in a chapel, not in the practice yard.

“You told me to find a suitable gown for her to wear for the occasion.” Toft looked confused as if he had no idea of what he’d done wrong. “I figured – what better gown to wear than a wedding gown. And it’s perfect for your wedding. I figured since you kept it even after the death of your wife, you must really like it. So you see, I did it to make you happy.”

At this point, Conlin didn’t have the energy or the will to argue. He just wanted the wedding to be over with, and his daughter and lands to be secure from the blood-thirsty Scots. He didn’t like it in the least that she wore his dead wife’s gown. But since this would be over with momentarily and he’d be taking that gown right off her back anyway, he decided not to let it upset him.

“Fine. It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, walking forward to meet Isobel as she came down the aisle. A minstrel played soft melodic music on a lute, and his daughter – dressed in a gown he’d never seen before – walked in front of Isobel with a basket of fresh rose petals, sprinkling them on the path where they walked.

“Rose petals? You didn’t get those from my daughter’s garden did you?” he asked his squire, thinking of how much money he spent every month to have a gardener raise the flowers in the first place. He’d thought they’d mean something to his daughter since she was named after the flower, but to his dismay his daughter didn’t even like roses.

“She said she wanted to be Isobel’s flower girl, so she needed flowers. It was actually her idea.” Toft flashed him an apologetic smile.

“Well, you should have discouraged the addled idea. Remind me to take it out of your hide on the practice field later.” He was so upset he couldn’t even look at the boy when he spoke. Then again, his eyes were fastened to Isobel, and he couldn’t look away if he wanted to. She was the vision of loveliness dressed in his late wife’s gown.

Years ago he’d hired a man from the dressmaker’s guild in town to sew it. He’d chosen the finest velvet and even spent extra money on the gold inlaid buttons that trailed down the back, as well as the hand-sewn lace at the bodice. The tippets – sleeves of the kirtle - were long and almost touched the ground. The entire gown was made from the popular color for weddings – blue and white.

Isobel’s chestnut hair was left long and flowing with a few thin braids framing her face. Her hair settled nicely over her shoulders and in the juncture of her cleavage - just the way he liked it. She had a metal circlet around her head covered with a small dainty veil down the back. And her braids were woven with more fresh flowers that he recognized from his daughter’s garden as well. She walked up clutching a bouquet of daisies, and he saw them shaking in her hand like a fish on the end of a line. He reached out and took one of her hands and placed it atop his arm.

“Relax,” he whispered, but it seemed to do naught to calm her nerves.

Her long, dark lashes fluttered, and when she looked up into his eyes he could see she was very frightened.

“You’re doing just fine,” he said in a low, calming voice.

She flashed a quick smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Her skin looked so smooth and silky. Her lips were red – reminding him of those expensive rose petals that now covered his floor. Her eyes captured his undivided attention with those specks of gold and green, making her very unique.

She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it. Of course, he knew that from the first moment he fished her out of the sea. She was like a siren, drawing him in, and he found himself so attracted to her that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to step away. His throat tightened up when it was his turn to take his vows, and he wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to speak.

He wondered what it would feel like to make love to her, and the excitement of having her in his bed had him growing beneath his belt. He cursed himself. He shouldn’t feel this way. He loved his late wife, Skena, and always would. Somehow, just by having these thoughts he felt as if he were being disloyal to her, though she was buried deep beneath the ground.

“Baron, we are all waiting for you to say your vows.” The priest’s words brought him out of the spell he was under.

He cleared his throat, still feeling as if he couldn’t speak. “I do,” he said, and it came out sounding quite high, like a boy who was just turning to manhood.

John laughed and so did his squire, and he flashed them a look of warning and tried it again. “I do,” he said, making his voice even lower than normal, just to make sure he wouldn’t squeak out his reply once more.

Before he knew it, the priest was asking for the rings, and he realized he didn’t have any. He’d planned on buying some in Great Yarmouth for his wedding to Catherine, but the storm popped up and his scheduled plans were never carried out.

He looked over toward John and his squire, but before he could even mention it, Toft’s hand shot out with two rings in his open palm.

He looked down and scowled. “Where . . . did you get . . . those?” He recognized them at once as his late wife’s wedding ring, as well as his own. He’d hidden them away the day his wife died, and he’d vowed never to look at them again. His daughter blamed him for Skena’s death, and somehow he started believing it himself. He hadn’t at first, but through the years he realized he’d been wrong to take Rose away at such a crucial time. To wear his ring again, and give the other to the proxy would be like stomping disrespectfully over the dead woman’s grave.

“I found them in the back of your wardrobe in a box pushed way in the corner, my lord.” Toft sounded as if he were proud of himself, and had found some sort of treasure. Conlin pushed the squire’s arm out of the way and spoke to the priest.

“We don’t need rings. Now finish up, as it’s almost time for the banquet and I don’t fancy the thought of eating cold food.”

“Of course, my lord,” said the priest, finishing up the ceremony quickly.

Conlin blessed himself and let out a breath of relief, that is, until he heard the priest’s next words.

“You may kiss the bride, my lord.”

He looked around the room, and though by his wish there were not many people present, every one of the attendees was staring at him. He had no choice – he had to kiss her.

His daughter’s wide blue eyes burned into him. Toft and John had big smiles that he wanted nothing more than to slap right off their faces right now. Didn’t anyone understand just how hard this was for him? He didn’t want to kiss a woman in front of his daughter. That would be like driving a stake into her precious heart.

John nudged him in the arm and leaned over and whispered into his ear. “If you want – I’ll kiss the proxy and consummate the marriage for you – no charge.”

“Get back,” he said, pushing his friend away. Then knowing that he’d never get to the Great Hall in time for the banquet unless he kissed her, he leaned over and pulled Isobel into his arms. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the face of his daughter as he did this deed, and leaned over and placed his mouth against hers. With his eyes closed it was easy to forget his anxiety of the situation. And when he tasted the sweet softness of her lips – this time without the lingering aftertaste of seawater, he found it to his liking. He wanted more.

It had been three long years since he’d had a woman, and it was hard in more ways than one. He’d brushed off the busty serving wenches through the years, and even the ladies of the king’s court who were more than willing to lift their skirts for him. He was a favorite of all the women in his castle as well as his lands because of his looks and his ability to wield a sword. With just a nod of his head, any one of them would have gladly and willingly helped him to release his pent-up frustration.

But he’d abstained from bedding women because of his daughter. Or so he’d told himself at the time, but after a while, it was so much more than that. He’d stayed away from the women because he felt disloyal to his late wife. Not where mistresses were concerned, but because he hadn’t been able to save his wife and son from death’s hold. He felt as if he needed to be punished, even if it were by his own hand.

Their lips melded together at the slightest touch, and it awoke something in him that had lain dormant for a long time now. That is - his need to feel a woman as well as act like a man. One kiss and his strong desire to join with a woman in coupling came raging to the surface. He quickly pulled away and opened his eyes to see Isobel staring at him with a need of her own ignited in those hazel depths.

“’Tis done,” he announced, quickly turning away before he pulled her into his arms and took her right there at the altar. Egads, this woman did something to him that he didn’t understand. He wanted her badly, and knew that in a few hours he would actually have her. But did he deserve it? And would he feel right consummating a marriage to a woman overseas with her proxy instead?”

“What’s next?” His daughter looked up at him and tugged on his tunic. He glanced downward, surprised she was even touching him. She hadn’t hugged him in years and any time he even tried to take her hand, she’d always pull away as if she were scared.

“What’s next?” The thoughts of coupling racing like a raging bull in heat through his head, he wasn’t sure how to answer. “Now . . . we eat. Aye. The banquet will be served. Everyone to the Great Hall, and we will have a wedding feast like no other.”

Chapter 11

Isobel sat next to Conlin at the dais, sharing the same trencher of food, and also the same wedding cup of wine. She had heard every word between Conlin and Toft in the chapel, as the squire didn’t know how to whisper. Besides, every word spoken echoed off the rounded ceiling of the chapel tower as if it were the ringing of a bell.

When Toft gave her the gown to wear, she’d had no idea it had been worn by Conlin’s late wife in a wedding of their own. Had she known, she would have refused to wear it. And as for the flowers - actually she suggested using flowers from the garden, but Rose had been the one to tell Toft of the plan.

She felt sick to her stomach. She couldn’t stop thinking about what was written in that letter of confirmation. How could her uncle do such a thing to her?

“Catherine,” she said to herself, squinting her eyes in aggravation. She was sure it must have been her cousin’s doing. After all, Catherine had insisted at the last moment that she was too ill to travel on the water and that Isobel would go in her place.

Isobel moved her foot to the side of her chair and picked up her gown slightly to see a pair of shoes that Catherine had given her last year when she wanted Isobel to tend to her needs when they’d taken a trip to the Highland Games.

Isobel had already changed her shoes three times since the wedding ceremony that was only an hour ago. She couldn’t decide which shoes to wear, and ended up with a pair of peaked shoes with a flap that was higher in the front and back. They weren’t as ornate as some of her others, but these were comfortable. She figured they might be good if the baron should ask her to dance.

“So how many pairs of shoes did Catherine give you?” Conlin looked over as he raised a goblet of wine to his mouth.

She hurriedly hid her foot beneath the table and took the wine from him, gulping it down eagerly just so she wouldn’t have to answer. The truth was, hardly any of her shoes were her own. They’d all been Catherine’s at one time or another and were only her cousin’s cast-offs.

She felt anger rising in her chest. Rose was right. Catherine was treating her like a puppet on a string, and Isobel had let her cousin do it. What was the matter with her? She should have said no - to everything that Catherine asked. She should have refused to come marry a baron who for all she knew could be a murderer. And now to make matters worse she would have to go to his bed and spread her legs and . . . ”

“Open wide for me, Lady Isobel,” came Conlin’s command.

“What did ye say?” She almost dropped the goblet. Her eyes opened and her chin raised and she found herself looking directly into his cool, steel grey eyes.

“I said . . . open wide for me.” He held up his eating knife with a piece of pheasant stabbed onto the end.

“Oh.” She opened her mouth to speak, and he quickly but gently slipped the food between her lips and pulled out the knife carefully so he wouldn’t cut her. The pheasant was succulent and covered with rich brown herbed gravy that dribbled down her chin in the process. In a mere second he snatched up the folded square of linen from the table and dabbed at the gravy as if he were a doting father and she a child. She’d seen him coddle his daughter in much the same way and thought it ridiculous at the girl’s age. Or her age, for that matter. She smiled inwardly, as secretly she did like the attention.

“More wine, my lady?” He took the cup from her and motioned for the cupbearer to refill it. Then he brought it to her mouth, but stopped and pulled it away. “I forgot the toast.”

“The toast?” She wondered what he would say.

He stood and raised his hand for attention to quiet the rest of the room. The noise level in the room lowered immediately. The Great Hall was large and filled with people, all lined up and down the wooden benches of the trestle tables that stretched across the room. Servers buzzed around like bees, bringing dish after dish of woodcock and whiting to the main table raised atop the dais. Next they delivered food to the knights and nobles sitting directly in front of the salt, and last to the villagers and peasants seated near the fire – way below the salt. The servants wouldn’t eat until later, and she was sure it would only be the scraps that were leftover from the feast.

“I raise a glass today to the woman who is now my wife, and also the new mother of my daughter.” He looked over to her and just when she thought he’d say her name, she was quickly brought back to reality. “Lady Catherine MacEwen of Fife, wherever she may be. May we all live in peace since as of today we will be in an alliance with the MacEwen Clan, and will not have to fear an attack on our lands in the night.”

“You mean . . . after you consummate the marriage,” said John through a forced, fake cough.

Conlin just turned and glowered at him, and Isobel busied herself pushing food around the trencher with her spoon, rather than to have to look at either of them right now.

She and Conlin didn’t speak much during the meal. Instead, Isobel gave all her attention to Rose who sat next to her jibber-jabbering about how much she liked the pair of shoes that Isobel gave her and how well they fit. She’d given the girl her special shoes that her father had paid the cordwainer for dearly. They’d been her present on her 12
th
birthday.

“Tomorrow I’ll show you my shoes,” Rose told her, scooping up crumbs from the table and licking them off her fingers.

“Rose, use your linen cloth to wipe your mouth,” came Conlin’s command. Rose’s smile disappeared, and the girl slowly picked up the cloth from the table and did as told. “You have your lessons tomorrow and won’t have time for trivial things like looking at shoes. Besides, you only have two pairs of shoes so there’s really nothing to show.”

“Three now,” said Rose, picking up her foot and plopping it down atop the white linen cloth on the table. In the process, she bumped the tall salt-cellar, and the ornamental dish toppled over and spilled salt all over the table and down to the rushes far below. The stray dogs of the manor ran up and rooted around thinking they’d found some meat.

“Stop that! What’s the matter with you, young lady?” Conlin was not happy. Salt was expensive and treated as if it were a valuable gem. “We are nobles and do not act that way.” He waved his hand through the air and a woman came rushing over. “Take Rose up to her chamber, and that’s where she’ll stay until she learns how to act like a proper lady.”

“Aye, milord,” said the servant with a curtsy, holding out her hand over the table toward Rose rather than to walk up the stairs of the dais. Only nobles were allowed up on the raised platform.

“Nay! I won’t go,” shouted the girl, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting.

Isobel knew she had to intervene, because it was only going to get worse from here. Conlin had no idea how to talk to his daughter, and she wondered if he’d had a hand in raising her at all while his wife was alive. Probably not. Usually the nobles’ children were raised by nursemaids while the men spent their time at war, on the practice field, or at tournaments.

“Come along, Rose. I’ll go with ye te yer chamber. I am done eatin’ fer now.” She got up quickly and grabbed Rose by the hand.

“No you won’t,” said Conlin, looking up in surprise. “This is our wedding day and we’ve yet to have our first dance.”

“Dance with the shadow o’ Catherine then, me lord,” she told him. “I’m jest the proxy and I’m sure ye willna even ken thet I’m gone.”

She hurried off the dais, holding Rose’s hand and made her way through the Great Hall and out to the corridor - all the while ignoring Conlin’s protesting remarks from behind her.

“I think you made my father angry,” said Rose as they made their way to the back staircase that led to the upstairs chambers.

“I dinna care,” she told her. “I’m jest a proxy and soon will ne’er see him again. But ye are his daughter and he is correct in sayin’ ye should act more like a lady and the noble thet ye are.”

“I don’t care either.” She pulled away and disappeared into the shadows. When Isobel went to look for her, she found the girl hiding under the stairway, clutching a doll made of rags.

“Rose?” She peered into the darkness, as there was only an occasional torch lit in the corridor flickering from the iron holders attached to the stone wall. “What are ye doin’?”

“This is my special hiding place where no one can bother me,” she said, hiding her face against the doll.

Isobel’s heart went out to her. Sudden flashbacks filled her mind and she saw herself sitting in the shadows under the stairs with her own doll – many years ago.

“I had a hidin’ place under the stairs too, at Kirkcaldy Castle when I was yer age.”

“You did?” She looked up, and the torchlight reflected in her glassy blue eyes.

“I did. May I join ye?” She waited to be invited into the girl’s sacred space.

“I guess so.” She moved aside, and Isobel hunkered down and slid into the small space next to her and leaned her head back against the cold stone. She was cramped and her knees were bent up against her chest and she could barely breathe. It made them both laugh.

“Can I see yer doll?” she asked, and the girl hesitantly handed it over. “I had a doll too at yer age. It was me comfort, though I was much too old te be playin’ with dolls. Ye do realize thet a lot o’ girls are already married by yer age.”

“I know,” she said, snatching the doll away. “But my mother gave this to me just before she died. It reminds me of her – it still smells like her, and I like that.” She snuggled her nose down into the doll again and Isobel put her arm around the girl’s shoulder and pulled her closer. She felt not only Rose’s sorrow, but also her own from losing her mother. Sadly, she could barely even picture the woman’s face anymore. It had been a long time since her own mother’s death, and she, like Rose, didn’t ever want to forget her.

“Find Isobel and bring her to my chamber.” Conlin’s voice echoed through the corridor. Isobel held her finger to her lips to silence the girl as Conlin climbed the stairs above their heads. Someone followed right behind him. They could see their feet through the slats in the stairs, but nothing more.

“Who is with him?” whispered Rose as they watched Conlin’s alum-tawed leather boots with the thick, sturdy soles walk up the stairs so close to their noses that they could have reached out and touched him.

“It’s his squire,” Isobel whispered back as a pair of front-tied boots with elongated toes followed him up the stairs.

“How do you know?”

“Becooz I remember the way he walks – light on his feet and quick like a rabbit. I also would ken his silly shoes anywhere.”

Rose enjoyed the game they played, and as one person after another continued to walk up and down the stairs, Isobel pointed out to her who they were. Rose’s favorite was the castle jester’s shoes. He had little bells on the toes of his red and green shoes that jingled when he walked. And the toes of his shoes were twice as long as Toft’s shoes and had to be tied up to his knees in order not to trip.

“That’s the chambermaid – the old lady with the wagging tongue,” Isobel whispered as a pair of simple turn-welt shoes climbed the steps next. Isobel pretended like she was going to reach out and trip her and Rose laughed aloud. The woman stopped, and Isobel held her hand over Rose’s mouth until the woman continued on her way.

“That’s the baron’s steward, Sir Jackson,” she pointed out next as the man stomped up the stairs. “He walks heavy like an elephant, and his boots are nearly up to his knees.” They both giggled softly at that.

Then two more sets of shoes went by, and she pointed out her guard, Elliot, and the way his boots smelled like smoke, and Shadwell, the baron’s First Mate as well. Shadwell had a sturdy stance and an even gait. He wore buckle-front shoes with rounded toes, and soles close to the ground. Being on the ship and the docks most the time, these shoes were a wise choice.

“You know everyone,” said Rose in awe.

“I have te admit, I didna ken Shadwell’s shoes, as he is donning a different pair than he usually wears. He normally wears boots much like the baron’s, but I think these are a better choice.”

“Then how did you know?”

“I cheated,” she said with a smile. “I heard his voice before he ever got to the stairs.” Isobel opened the pouch tied to her waist and pulled out a pair of soft slippers.

“What are you doing?” Rose watched her intently.

“I’m tired o’ wearin’ these shoes and want te wear a different pair instead.” She pulled off her shoes and pushed them into the dark shadows and donned the soft slippers.

“You really like shoes, Lady Isobel, don’t you?”

“I do. And jest call me Isobel, ye dinna have te call me lady.”

After playing the game a while longer, Isobel knew the baron would be angry when he couldn’t find either of them. She didn’t want the girl to get into trouble, so she convinced Rose to go to her chamber and get some rest.

After closing the girl’s door, she tiptoed down the corridor, and right when she got in front of Conlin’s solar, the door swung open and his squire walked out. She stopped in her tracks when she eyed Conlin inside the room, standing next to a very large bed. He paced back and forth.

“There you are.” His pacing stopped and he stretched his neck to see her.

“I’ll find Rose, milord,” announced his squire.