The Spitfire (57 page)

“Rub him down good, laddie,” he said with a smile, and then turned to FitzWalter. “How bad is it?”

“We only just got back from France ourselves, my lord,” the captain told him, “but Sir Jasper, from what I can see, has done a right fine job of destroying Greyfaire. There’s nothing left, and most of Greyfaire’s folk have gone but for—as my son Rowan puts it—the sick and the stubborn.”

“And when I’ve finally killed SirJasper Keane, FitzWalter, will Greyfaire thrive again?” the earl asked quietly.

A terrible sadness sprang into FitzWalter’s eyes, a knowledge that he obviously found hard to face. Finally he looked directly at the Earl of Dunmor and answered honestly, “Nay, I think not, my lord, though it pains me to say it. The land will come back in time with hard work and care, and my lady has good credit with the goldsmiths in York, but we have lost our people, my lord. No estate can survive without its people, and there are many who would question my mistress’s ability to hold Greyfaire. If her ladyship is Greyfaire’s heart—and she is—then Greyfaire’s folk are the blood in its veins. There is not enough blood left in Greyfaire’s body for it to continue on, to live again.”

“But yer mistress will continue to try, will she nae, FitzWalter?”

“Aye, my lord, she will,” the keep’s captain said fatalistically.

“Then,” said the earl, “I must continue to wait for her to come to her senses, though my family harangues me constantly to remarry and hae more bairns.”

“Lady Margaret!”
FitzWalter said. “You will want to see our little lady! Oh, she is a right piece of goods, my lord. As willful as her mother, I vow!”

Tavis Stewart burst out laughing. “God help me then, FitzWalter,” he said. “One of them is more than I can handle, and I am nae ashamed to admit it either.”

FitzWalter chuckled in agreement.

They came into the Great Hall, and the earl saw Arabella standing by a fireplace warming her hands. A small, dark-haired girl was by her side. Hearing them, Arabella turned, and seeing him, she bent, whispering something to the child, who suddenly sped across the room toward the earl calling, “Papa! Papa!” Tavis Stewart swept his daughter up into his arms and kissed her soundly, even as he silently marveled at the beautiful sky-blue of her eyes. As he looked past Margaret, snuggled happily in his arms, to meet Arabella’s gaze, she saw that his eyes were wet. Turning away, she brushed the tears from her own eyes lest he see them.

Swinging back to face him, she spoke in formal, even tones. “You are most welcome to Greyfaire, my lord. I thank you for coming. You must be thirsty after your long ride. Will you have some ale? I regret I cannot offer you wine, but I returned only two days ago to find my cellars virtually empty, but for a cask or two. We will save what is left to celebrate your defeat of our mutual enemy. Nora, take Lady Margaret. It is past her bedtime. Margaret, bid your father good night. He will be here in the morning to see you, I promise,” she told her daughter, who looked as if she would rebel, but reassured by her mother’s words, she did not.

“Ale will be quite refreshing, madame. My thanks,” he said, accepting the pewter goblet as the child was removed from his embrace. What a vixen she was, he thought, and he almost laughed aloud. She was behaving as if his visit were totally unexpected; as if finding himself in the neighborhood, he had simply stopped to visit. He was tempted to say that he had merely come to conduct his daughter to a place of safety, since he had learned Greyfaire would shortly be under siege. He wondered if he told her that whether she would then ask for his help. He doubted it. Arabella would fight Sir Jasper Keane in hand-to-hand combat before she would ask formally for Tavis Stewart’s aid. Her pride would be the death of her.

“Your men may bed themselves down in the hall, my lord,” she told him in a stiff tone. “A chamber has been prepared in the family apartments for you.”

“Thank ye, madame,” he said. “Do ye then consider me yet a part of the ‘family’?” It had simply been too good to resist, Tavis Stewart considered, his dark green eyes twinkling at her. She suddenly realized that they were alone. The hall was empty but for herself and the Earl of Dunmor.

“This is a small keep, my lord, as you surely realize. Honored guests must, of necessity, be housed in the family apartments,” she replied primly.

“Of course, madame,” he answered gravely.

“You will be hungry after your journey,” Arabella continued coolly. “I regret I can but offer you simple fare, but ‘tis hot, well-seasoned, and filling, I promise.”

The Earl of Dunmor found himself most tempted to grab the Lady of Greyfaire and kiss her quite soundly. She was the most stubborn, most aggravating, most irritating woman he had ever known in his life, but she had totally spoiled him for any other woman. He had not seen her since his visit to France, but somehow the beautiful woman in her plain country garb fascinated him a great deal more than the elegant creature he had encountered in Paris. Whatever had happened between them, Tavis Stewart knew that he loved Arabella Grey, had always loved her, and would never love another woman but her. He wanted her back as his wife, his countess, the mother of his children. This time, however, he would not take her from Greyfaire. This time he would wait until she was ready to leave it of her own free will, until she was ready to come to him. He didn’t care how long it took, he would have none but her.

His men were beginning to enter the hall, and the keep’s few servants were hurrying in with the food. The men sat themselves down below the highboard, where their hostess, Father Anselm, the earl, and FitzWalter were already seated. Donald Fleming stamped up to the dais and plunked himself into the chair next to his elder brother. Arabella nodded her head in greeting, and he grunted something undistinguishable back at her.

“It is comforting to know that our estrangement has not altered my relationship with your brother, my lord,” Arabella said with some small attempt at levity.

“Donald does nae change,” Tavis Stewart said, amused. “However, he is a married man now, ye know.”

“Donald?”

“Aye, me!” Donald Fleming said belligerently. “Do ye find that strange, madame?”

“Nay, sir, I do not, for does not the church teach that there is a woman for every man? She must be a most special lass, Donald Fleming, to put up with you.”

“Aye, she’s special,” came the retort, “and a biddable lass too, unlike some I’m too polite to mention.”

“More ale, Donald Fleming?” Arabella said sweetly, and when he nodded, she poured the contents of the pitcher into his lap. With a particularly violent oath that set the elderly priest to gasping, he leapt up roaring. Arabella cried out in seemingly distressed tones, “Ohh, sir, you must forgive me my clumsiness. I am so nervous with the thought of the battle to come.”

Donald Fleming rushed from the table, followed by a manservant whom Arabella had signaled to care for her somewhat wet guest. FitzWalter swallowed his laughter lest he offend Donald Fleming, but it was not easy.

“Ye hae nae changed, spitfire,” the earl chuckled, then sobered when she said to him:

“How wise you are to understand that, my lord.”

Tavis Stewart nodded. “Aye, lassie,” he told her softly, “I do understand. More, perhaps, than even ye may realize.”

“Tell me how you will overcome Sir Jasper,” Arabella asked him, changing the subject deftly.

“By means of an old ruse,” the earl answered. “Before first light Donald will leave Greyfaire with half of my force. They will be concealed just over yon hills. When our old nemesis attacks, we will catch him in a pincers movement. Donald will fall upon him from the rear, while my half of our clansmen and I will take the offensive and charge forth over yer drawbridge. Sir Jasper will be expecting neither of us because he does nae know we are here. He thinks ye helpless, and will be filled with thoughts of a final victory over Greyfaire. He will be dead before nightfall, madame, I swear it!”

“‘Tis a good plan, my lord,” she told him. “More rabbit stew?”

“Aye,” he said, and she filled his plate once more, adding a chunk of crusty, fresh bread and a wedge of a hard, sharp cheese.

“I have no sweet,” she apologized. “The orchards are gone, and I have not yet had the time to bring supplies in from York.”

“Yer company, Arabella Grey, is sweet enough,” he replied.

She looked astounded by the compliment. Was it possible that he still cared for her, even after knowing that she had been the Duc de Lambour’s mistress while in France? His face betrayed nothing, and Arabella decided that he was simply being polite to her. He had always been quick to turn a pretty phrase. She smiled. “You are gracious, my lord, but the truth is, I am a poor hostess tonight. I will remedy my circumstances once we have disposed of our enemy. When you come to Greyfaire again, and you must for Margaret’s sake, I shall entertain you in far fairer fashion, I promise.”

When the Scots were well filled with stew, and trout, small game birds, bread and cheese, one of them brought out his pipes and began to play. The ale cask was drained, and Arabella saw that another was set in its place before she excused herself from the hall.

“FitzWalter will show you to your room, my lord,” she told the earl, and curtsying, went to her own rooms, where Lona awaited her mistress.

“‘Tis to be hoped that Sir Jasper has had himself shriven recently,” the servant said pertly. “They say he’ll be lying in his grave by this time tomorrow night if the earl has anything to say about it,
and he will!”

“Pray God and His blessed Mother,” Arabella said, and she undressed, wondering briefly—before she forced the unsettling thought from her—what it would be like to lie in the Earl of Dunmor’s arms again. She shivered, knowing the answer.

“When shall I awaken you, my lady?”

“By first light, Lona. I want to watch the battle from the battlements. I want to see my lord…I want to see the earl deliver that wretch, Jasper Keane, his death blow. I hope the bastard sees me looking down on him in his death throes. All that has happened, Lona…all that has happened to me these past seven years has been because of Sir Jasper Keane. My mother’s death, Jamie Stewart, Greyfaire’s destruction, my stay in France! All of that misery due to one man.
I want him dead!
”

“There was good things too, my lady,” Lona said quietly. “Your marriage to the earl, and little Margaret.”

Arabella said nothing further, instead climbing into her bed. She crossed herself devoutly and turned her back to the maidservant, but Lona knew that the barb had hit its mark from the flush on her mistress’s cheeks.

Arabella should not have slept that night, and yet she did. More soundly than she had slept in months, and when she finally awoke, she heard Tavis Stewart’s voice raised in ferocious anger coming from the hall. “Lona? Lona, where are you?” Arabella called, and the girl hurried in, talking even as she came, wide-eyed with the importance of her news.

“The earl is fearful angry, my lady! Sir Jasper Keane is dead! The earl and his brother are having a row the likes of which I have never seen! They’re like to kill each other!”

“Give me my
robe de chambre
!” Arabella said, scrambling from her bed. Quickly she put it on and raced barefoot from her room and downstairs into the hall.

“Ye hae no right!” the earl was shouting at his younger brother, and he hit him a blow that knocked the younger man across the room.

“What the hell hae
right
got to do wi’ it, damnit?” Donald Fleming shouted back, stumbling to his feet and across the hall to deliver a blow to the earl’s jaw.

“I should hae been the one to kill him, not ye!” the earl cried angrily, striking Donald a second time with all of his might and sending him reeling.

“What difference does it make?” Donald roared, staggering to his feet again. “The bastard is dead, and that’s all that matters!” He smashed a fist into Tavis Stewart’s midsection, doubling him over.

“Stop it! Stop it this instant!
What is going on?”
Arabella demanded of the two men. “Lona says that Sir Jasper Keane is dead.”

“Aye,” the earl said, gasping and straightening himself up. “My brother usurped my rights when he killed him, didn’t ye, Donald?” He stepped threateningly toward the other man.

“Donald, I beg you to explain to me,” Arabella said, putting herself between the two men.

“Our mam was afraid that Tavis would get himself killed, and there’s no heir to Dunmor. Only an heiress, and her being raised
English,”
Donald began.

Arabella grit her teeth, silently praying she would not lose her temper until this great fool had entirely explained himself.

“I promised Mam that I would see Tavis didna do anything foolish. Sir Jasper Keane is his weak spot, and she feared Tavis’ rashness would make him less than careful. So this morning, just before the dawn, we crept from yer keep, and instead of waiting just over the hills to catch Sir Jasper in a pincers movement, I sent several of the lads to seek our Sir Jasper’s position. Imagine our surprise to find that the bastard and his men were camped two miles from Greyfaire. The devil probably had thoughts of surprising ye at sunrise.

“We fell upon them in the false dawn,” Donald continued with a wolfish grin. “‘Twas a glorious battle, even if it was too short. The lads butchered the English neatly, and quickly. All, but Sir Jasper, for I saved him for myself. I knew ye’d nae want him to hae too quick or easy a death, Tavis. ‘Twas a pleasure to kill him for ye though he was nae much of a swordsman. More bluster than skill,” he said, remembering the scene which still played vividly in his mind.

His men had made a circle about them, clearing the bodies of the slain away that the combatants might not stumble and be at a disadvantage.

“Pick up yer sword, my lord,” Donald Fleming told his antagonist, “and say yer prayers, for ye’ll be dead before the sun rises or I’m a disgrace to my father’s name.”

Jasper Keane could barely get a grasp upon his blade’s hilt, for his hands were wet with fear. His men had been killed before they had even been fully awake. The smell of blood was heavy in the air, and already the carrion birds were circling above them. He was going to die. Instinctively he knew it, and he peed his breeches with his terror.