The Countess (32 page)

“Is that why you took so much from his treasury? Because he denied your will in some matter?”

Eglantine slanted Burke a glance that nigh sliced to his bones. “Is that what you all believe of me?”

“I do not know what to believe.” Burke shrugged. “I know only that Guillaume asked me to seek you out, to ensure that you were well. And Eglantine, I know that you must have had good reason for what you have done.”

Eglantine visibly gritted her teeth. “I took what I deemed necessary to survive in this remote place,” she said tightly. “For I had not the luxury of failing.”

“Jacqueline,” Burke guessed.

“Aye. Jacqueline.” Eglantine lifted her chin and her eyes glittered with defiance. “Do you come to criticize more than my manners? If you mean to take my daughter back to that wretched Reynaud, I shall fight you and you will lose.”

Burke was shocked by this claim, no less by her open display of passion, but Eglantine had always been protective of those she loved.

“Nay, Eglantine.” Burke shook his head and touched her chin, knowing he should not have been surprised by what she would sacrifice for her child. “Never that. I but come for news. Guillaume said he would pay the forfeit with but a word of confirmation from you—and assurance that all are well.”

“He might have paid it before.”

“I do not think he understood how strongly you felt of the matter.” But looking at her, Burke could not imagine how any could doubt the truth of it.

Eglantine held his gaze for a long moment, as though assuring herself that there was no censure to be found there, then suddenly her eyes narrowed. “But how did you know where to seek us out?”

Burke grinned. “Your mother.”

Eglantine was horrified and her eyes flashed with such vigor that Burke took a step back. “She swore secrecy! She pledged it to me on my father's grave.”

Burke hastened to reassure her even as he wondered what had happened to the cool and composed Eglantine he once had known. “The tale was not easily won, Eglantine. She surrendered the truth of it only to Guillaume and myself.”

“No others know of it?”

“Nay. I swear it to you.”

Wariness dawned in her expression. “But one cannot trust knights not to support each other, particularly when the king's law rests on their side.” Eglantine folded her arms across her chest. “Why truly did you come, Burke?”

“I came to lay your family's fears to rest and no more than that.” Burke returned her stare with resolve. “And I give you my most solemn pledge, that none will hear of this place or its location, not from me or my squires.”

“And Guillaume?”

“He sends his pledge that he will pay the forfeit. You have only to give me your word that 'tis your desire.”

“'Tis yours, have no doubt of that.” Eglantine took a step away. “But where are my manners?” she asked none in particular. “Xavier, might you take the chevalier's steed? And Gunther, a cup for our guest.” She turned and lifted her hands. “Jacqueline! Alienor! You should recall Burke de Montvieux well enough. Come and give your greetings to our guest.”

When the girls did not make an immediate appearance, Burke surveyed the company for the first time. He was surprised by their number. When he looked more closely, many of the faces were familiar, for there were vassals here who had served the Crevy family all their lives. Again, he would not have known them had he not looked carefully, for they all wore the mark of living in the sun and wind.

But they looked oddly contented.

Burke wondered whether they all would return with him to Crevy, now that Eglantine was reassured of her brother's commitment to her cause. As much as he desired to assuage his friend's concerns, such a company would move slowly, too slowly for Burke's purposes.

He wanted to be home with Alys, and that sooner rather than later.

Burke smiled politely as he accepted a chalice brimming with ale of pale gold and doffed his gloves. There was no sign of either girl despite Eglantine's summons and the lady's cheeks colored. She apologized to Burke and he shrugged off the slight, seeing that she would not forget the matter so readily as that.

“Ah, there is Esmeraude,” Eglantine said crisply.

'Twas when Burke followed the lady's gaze that he first saw the savage man glaring at him. The man's anger was so tangible that it could not be directed at a stranger. Burke glanced over his shoulder before he could stop himself.

But no one stood behind him. Even his squires had moved away with the horses, one carrying his helm. He stood alone against the shadows of the distant hills.'

Which meant the man glared at
him
.

Burke stared back, uncertain what he could have done in such short order to win such animosity. Indeed, the man looked as though he needed no invitation to rip Burke's hide from his bones.

And truly, he was tall enough and broad enough to likely accomplish the task with ease. He was dressed in the garb of these Scots, dark of hair and silver of eye, a length of wool wound round his hips and cast over his shoulder. His legs were bare and solidly muscled, the knife in his belt looked crude but effective.

“Esmeraude, please come and greet our guest.” Eglantine smiled for the child and offered her hand. “You may not recall Burke, but he is a great friend of your uncle Guillaume.”

“Nay!” The toddler pouted with a defiance that put Burke in mind of his own young son. He sipped from his cup to hide his smile. Aye, he and Alys had rued the day Bayard learned the word ‘nay', for the boy employed it in response to all queries.

“Esmeraude! I but ask you to greet a guest, as any young lady of merit should do.”

“Nay.” The toddler stuck out her tongue at her mother and hid behind the knees of the rough man who had taken such an immediate dislike to Burke.

This indeed was interesting. The child was unafraid of him.

The man offered his index finger to Esmeraude who clutched it, completely without fear. Indeed, she seemed to expect him to champion her cause against Eglantine. He said something to her, but she shook her head and hovered stubbornly behind him. Eglantine made a low sound of frustration and Burke was so surprised that she showed any visible signs of emotion that he nearly choked on his ale.

Eglantine, the icy maiden of the court, showed her passions so readily as this? More than the hue of her skin had changed!

He watched in amazement. The man dropped to a crouch beside Esmeraude as though he had all the time in Christendom. He touched the child's chin with surprising gentleness and spoke to her, the low rumble of his voice incomprehensible to Burke at this distance.

Esmeraude huddled beside him, her expression uncertain as she eyed Burke. 'Twas clear this man tried to persuade the child to follow her mother's request—and just as clear that Esmeraude had no interest in the plan.

“They have a rare determination in this age,” Burke said to Eglantine. She was probably embarrassed, as Alys tended to be when Bayard did not heed such seemingly simple requests.

Eglantine folded her arms across her chest and watched the child. “If you will forgive me such plain speech, 'tis a relief at least that she no longer embraces every man to cross her path. 'Twould have been troubling indeed for her to hold that habit another decade.”

Again, Burke feared to choke on his ale so surprised was he by this blunt conclusion. Eglantine thumped his back with such vigor that he was even more astonished by her familiarity, a fact that did naught to ease his woes.

When he had recovered himself sufficiently to look up, she was laughing at him. “Oh, Burke, you look like a fish cast from the water.”

Burke felt his eyes round at this assessment. What had happened to Eglantine in this place? And what had put that twinkle in her eyes?

Of even greater concern, that rough man was striding towards him, a wary Esmeraude holding fast to his shoulder. The little girl was delighted, clearly having won her way in persuading her champion to escort her.

But Burke's tentative smile was wiped away when he noted the murderous gleam lurking in that man's eyes.

“Eglantine, I beg of you.” Burke spoke quickly, while he yet had the chance. “Tell this man I intend no harm to any of you, and that before he chooses to harm me. Tell him I am innocent of whatever crime he would hold me guilty.”

The lady laughed as though he made a jest, a response that only made this ruffian's countenance darken further. She then turned to the man who carried her child. She introduced Duncan MacLaren with the grace Burke recalled, evidently unaware of the animosity that emanated from the man.

'Twas only when Eglantine hastened away and this Duncan's gaze followed her, that Burke understood.

Of course. How could he have been so witless? He had pursued Eglantine all the way from France—or so it would appear to one who desired the lady's favor—and this man clearly was smitten with Eglantine.

Fortunately, the misunderstanding could readily be resolved.

Burke smiled and lifted his left hand so that his wedding ring caught the light. “You have naught with which to concern yourself,” he said reassuringly. “I am already wed.”

Disgust crossed Duncan's features and he set Esmeraude on the ground. “And still you come to court Eglantine?” he demanded, taking a menacing step closer as he scowled. “You noblemen are all the same, seeing naught but your own desires and caring naught for the damage left in your wake!” He flung out his hands and Burke was alarmed at the size of him. “'Tis no wonder the woman cannot imagine a man would treat her well!”

Duncan's voice rose to a bellow that drew the eye of every soul on that holding. “How dare you so dishonor not only the woman whose ring you wear, but my lady Eglantine?”

Burke managed to make no defense of himself, however eloquent, before pain exploded in his cheek. He fell backward at the force of the blow and landed most ignobly on his butt.

His squires cried out and drew their blades as they ran toward him. Meanwhile, the cup Burke had held flew skyward. The ale sprinkled down upon the fallen knight even as he stared up at his infuriated assailant. Burke held up a hand to halt his squires, well aware that the entire company watched the proceedings.

Duncan's hands clenched as he glared at Burke, as though he longed to finish the task he had begun. Burke knew that one wrong move or word would set the man upon him in truth. He fingered his cheek and considered his choices carefully.

“Boom,” said Esmeraude, then clapped her hands and giggled at her own assessment. When no one paid attention to her, she pouted, then lost interest in the two men and toddled away.

Then they both heard the approach of a clearly displeased Eglantine.

* * *

Jacqueline was terrified by the knight's arrival.

Oh, she knew that her uncle Guillaume was opposed to ending her match with Reynaud, for she had listened at the door while her mother argued in favor of breaking that betrothal. And she had heard Guillaume insist upon the sanctity of a contract.

She knew that Burke de Montvieux was her uncle's closest friend and she guessed immediately why he had come. Who else would her uncle send to collect a wayward niece? Who else but a knight of honor and repute, a friend who could be trusted and a man well known to keep his word?

Who else indeed.

But Jacqueline would not go. Nay, not she. If her mother could break the law, then so could she, and break it, she most surely would.

Jacqueline disappeared into the assembly, taking advantage of the long shadows of evening. She ignored her mother's call, knowing that Eglantine could only welcome a family friend. Perhaps her mother even trusted Burke to see her own view. Jacqueline snorted to herself. If so, Eglantine would be glad that Jacqueline had run once she ascertained that knight's mission here.

But Duncan would help her, Jacqueline knew this to be so. He would help her even if her mother could not. Aye, Duncan believed in love and justice beyond that of the king's law, for he sang of such matters all the time.

Jacqueline trusted Duncan, as she could never trust anyone who came from Crevy. She would fetch her heaviest cloak and her sturdiest boots, she would steal some bread from the hearth, she would find Duncan later this evening and request his aid in fleeing Ceinn-beithe. Her mother would applaud her choice once she had confirmed Burke's intent. Her mother would be proud that Jacqueline had been sensible enough to not flee into the wilds alone.

All were gathered near the fire, or in the new hall. Jacqueline ran toward the tents, hopeful that she would not been noticed. She was glad of the shadows between the rustling walls of silk and slipped around the back of her own tent to ensure that she would not be seen. Her heart was hammering with the boldness of what she would do. She strained her ears but heard naught beyond the distant sounds of merriment.

Much relieved, she slipped into her tent and took a deep breath. Her first goal was accomplished and in a matter of moments, she would be on her way. With shaking fingers Jacqueline struck a flint and lit the smallest lantern, vowing to let it burn as short a time as possible.

When she straightened, her breath caught in fear.

“How charming of you to come to me,” Reynaud said with a smirk. He was every bit as old and wrinkled as she recalled, and his eyes were as cold as ever. He stood, his arms folded across his chest, his boots spattered with mud. “Perhaps you were not so reluctant for our match as I had believed.”

Jacqueline dropped the lantern and spun to flee. She ran into a hard wall of muscle and a pair of arms closed around her like steel bands. She struggled, to no discernible effect. She heard Reynaud catch the lantern, heard the scrape of it being settled on the small table.

“Very good,” he said quietly.

Jacqueline was pushed back into the center of the tent by Reynaud's very large squire. The man grinned stupidly down at her, then gave her a shove that nearly made her lose her footing. Reynaud's gloved hands closed possessively over her shoulders from behind and Jacqueline gasped as he kissed her nape.