Claire Delacroix (75 page)

“Only a small one,” Alys argued.

“A
small
lie?” Burke granted her a skeptical glance and spoke with deliberation. “But I understood there was no difference between a small and a large lie.”

Alys glared at Burke but did not abandon the field. Ye gods, he loved that she was so quick of wit. She folded her arms across her chest and looked him in the eye. “ ’Twas for the greater good.”

Burke grinned. “Ah! I have heard much of the greater good this day.”

Alys swore with a thoroughness unexpected. “You are a most vexing man,” she muttered impatiently. Burke could not hold back his chuckle. Alys glanced up, then her lips quirked with laughter as if she guessed the direction of his thoughts and could not stop her response.

“There seems to be much of that trait hereabouts,” Burke teased, and was rewarded by a glimpse of the lady’s own smile.

“An epidemic,” she agreed, and Burke laughed aloud.

Then Alys propped her hands upon her hips and regarded him cockily. “ ’Twas a lie, I admit it. There! Are you satisfied?”

“Far from that,” Burke mused. “Though perhaps a token of your esteem would soothe me.”

“A token …” Alys frowned, then her eyes widened in understanding. The twinkle dancing there revealed that she was
not so horrified as she might pretend. “I shall not kiss you as penance for being protective of Brigid!”

Burke sighed with mock resignation and leaned against the wall. “Ah, then I fear I shall not be satisfied any time soon.”

And Alys laughed. Her fingers rose to her lips as soon as the sound bubbled forth. Her eyes danced with mischief and her dimple not only appeared but lingered.

“So you did listen,” Burke concluded with satisfaction.

“Of course I listened. I do not know what to expect from you.” She eyed him warily. “ ’Twas a pleasant surprise.”

Burke supposed that was a compliment. “Then you must have heard Brigid.”

“Aye.”

“Did you know of this dictate?”

Alys shook her head, clearly unhappy with the revelation.

“And there lies the root of your aunt’s concern. For if you wed and had a son, that son likely could challenge Deirdre or her daughters for Kiltorren when Cedric passed away.”

Alys did not argue his thinking. “Especially if neither of Cedric’s daughters wed.”

“Aye. ’Tis appallingly simple.” Burke shoved a hand through his hair. “Your aunt would keep you from wedding, she would insist upon this nonsense of Isibeal being a whore so that you would not even be tempted to bear an illegitimate child.”

Alys’s smile tightened and disappointment lit her fine eyes. “My own blood would see me die alone, unhappy and untouched, merely to ensure their own legacy for another generation.”

Burke held her gaze. “For the sake of Kiltorren.”

She studied him for a long moment. Burke knew he did not imagine the glimmer of hope in her eyes. “And what do you say of that?”

An easy question. “ ’Tis wrong, of course!”

But Alys’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

Burke gestured helplessly. “And it cannot continue.” Now Alys frowned. “And?”

“And
what
?”

“And what would you do about it?”

Burke flung out his hands. “Take you away, of course, with or without your aunt’s permission. Alys, you have only to say the word and we will leave this keep behind us. We could be gone before midday!”

“And I could repeat every error my dame ever made before nightfall.” The lady growled in frustration. “How could you expect so much of me for so little?” She pivoted smartly and marched away, leaving Burke dumbfounded.

“Alys! I am yours!”

“ ’Tis not enough!” the lady cried. “I am not such a witless fool that I would grant my all to a man who offers naught but a honeyed tongue!”

And Burke felt a shiver of dread.

How could Alys know that he had spurned his hereditary estate? Did she care more about such matters than he? Did she not believe that he could win a king’s ransom at the tourneys?

Did he not have enough to offer his intended bride? Too late he recalled that the lady
had
insisted that at Kiltorren, she was at least certain to be fed.

Nay, she could not have so little faith in him as that!

But Burke was not entirely certain of that.

“Do not be so quick to dismiss the merit of a honeyed tongue,” he called after her for lack of anything better to say.

Alys laughed in a spurt born of surprise, then glanced over her shoulder. “Incorrigible,” she declared, then disappeared into the kitchen.

“Tempted,” Burke answered grimly. “Frustrated and alone.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared after Alys. How could she not trust him to ensure her welfare?

’Twas insulting.

“She likes you,” Brigid murmured from behind him, and Burke turned to find the girl watching.

Burke shoved a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and considered the array of obstacles before him. “ ’Tis true you must be wed first?”

“Malvina,” Brigid insisted, her gaze troubled.

And rightly so, to Burke’s thinking. ’Twould not be easy to find Malvina a spouse, and Burke had no doubt that Deirdre had tried. Indeed, this seige was proving to have many fields of battle, not a one of them an easy victory.

But the simple truth was that finding Malvina a spouse would not only fulfill Deirdre’s condition, but convince Alys that Burke had no intent to wed her cousin.

A deed, if ever there was one.

In that moment, the rain began to fall in heavy drops, sending both knight and maiden inside with all haste. ’Twas fitting weather for the task confronting him, Burke could not help but note.

Indeed, ’twas a good thing he was not a man who was readily daunted.

Burke’s mood was markedly less than prime.

Hot with purpose, he had ridden out before midday to seek Malvina’s match. ’Twas imperative that he wed Alys’s cousins before offering formally for her hand once more. He would not tolerate Deirdre finding any reason to deny him, and he would not leave any doubt in Alys’s mind of his proposal or its sincerity.

So he descended upon a keep to the west of Kiltorren, shocking the residents with his sudden and sodden appearance. Sadly, they had no sons available for wedlock and no news of any unmarried men within range.

He begged accommodations and headed out the next morn to the south of Kiltorren, only to have similar results.

On Tuesday he made his way east, his quest yielding naught.

Wednesday took him to Killarney itself and Burke had high hopes for the prosperous town. A settlement of sufficient size, here he was certain there would be young men desiring a nobly born bride, perhaps interested enough to ask few questions of the lady’s nature. But it seemed rumors of Malvina’s nature preceded him, for more than one nobleman covered his mouth to hide a smile at the mention of Kiltorren.

Burke had the definite sense that Deirdre had trodden this ground before him, and done so many times.

He was so determined to check every possibility, to interview every family with any prospects, that it grew dark before he was done. Burke sought refuge in an inn, not pleased in the least to be away from Kiltorren.

He could only hope that Alys did not pay for the exchanges they had had on Sunday. Burke glared at the ceiling as the locals caroused in the common room below and refused to consider the possibility of failure.

Burke de Montvieux did not fail at any objective.

And he would
not
fail at this one.

’Twas still raining the next morn. Burke rode back to Kiltorren with a heavy heart, the fine steady mist of rain doing naught to improve his mood. Perhaps an answer lurked at Kiltorren itself. Perhaps the steward knew of someone, or the gatekeeper had heard a tale, or the priest in the village could be of aid.

Somewhere in Christendom, there had to be a man desperate enough to make Malvina his bride.

Encouraged at the thought, Burke gave Moonshadow his spurs, never expecting to find the very candidate he sought already standing at Kiltorren’s own gates.

Talbot was certain he had ridden to the ends of the earth. Indeed, the ocean rolled beyond the tower of this isolated keep,
its surface unmarred by ship or silhouette of distant land. The wind shoved chill fingers through his damp garments, the rain fell without cease. Goats milled behind the portcullis, their inquisitive gazes fixing upon Talbot at intervals, their jaws working incessantly.

He had ridden clear across this cursed island to find a faltering farm.

Indeed, Talbot had slept in places no better than hovels these past nights, he had found no wine, no women, and what passed for song made his ears ring. Last eve, he had bedded down in a field, and awakened cold, stiff, and damp. His squire, Henri, complained constantly, his nasal whine making Talbot long to throttle the boy.

Trust his uncle to send him to this godforsaken corner of the world! At moments like this, Talbot wondered whether his uncle’s wealth was truly worth the ordeal of winning it.

’Twas a sign of distress that he could even question such a fundamental tenet

And now, after all he had endured, the gatekeeper was disinclined to admit Talbot to this cursed keep. Indeed, the man had barred the gates against their arrival and stood now behind the portcullis, his arms folded across his formidable bulk.

Talbot’s minuscule measure of charm completely deserted him.

“What in the name of God do you mean I cannot pass?” he asked impatiently. “I am sent on a mission to Kiltorren and I demand admission!” His voice rose in irritation and his mare stepped agitatedly. ’Twas not a fine, even-tempered beast, though Talbot blamed his uncle for that as well.

The man could have bought him the finest stallion, and so readily that he would not even notice the expense of the coin. But Millard had this curious idea that a knight must “earn” his way in the world.

Talbot would much prefer to be
given
his due.

The gatekeeper did not so much as blink. “And I say you shall not have it, not until I have a better explanation for your arrival.”

“What nonsense is this? Have you no manners in this foul corner of a yet more foul country?”

The keeper inhaled sharply. “I was born and raised in this corner of this country …” he began, a thread of anger in his tone, but Talbot waved off this recounting of family history.

“I care naught for your birthright, unless it ends with my admission to the keep,” he snapped. “And a fine bowl of rabbit stew would be welcome, a glass of good Burgundy wine, and a plump willing wench.”

“Aye!” Henri agreed with a hearty bobbing of his head. “Wenches and wine would be fine, indeed.”

“See to it!” Talbot demanded.

But the gatekeeper squared his shoulders stubbornly and did not move. “We have few visitors at Kiltorren,” he declared. “And one cannot be too cautious in admitting armed knights to a holding.” He looked Talbot dead in the eye. “I say you shall not pass.”

Talbot flung out his hands. “Will you not even speak to your lord? What manner of hole have we found where the nobility are treated like common dirt?”

The gatekeeper smiled wryly. “Perhaps I shall find a moment to speak with him this evening.” He shrugged. “Or in the morning.”

“In the morning!” Talbot shrieked, his steed shying at the sound. “And what am I to do in that time? Where am I to sleep? And where am I to find a decent meal?”

The keeper shrugged, clearly enjoying Talbot’s discomfiture. As if to emphasize the unacceptability of these arrangements, thunder rumbled in the distance and the cold rain slanted down with new vigor. “Killarney is a half-day ride that way,” the keeper declared with no small measure of pleasure.
“If you left now, you could reach there before the evening meal.”

Talbot swore. He dismounted and stamped his feet, he strode through puddles and kicked muddy water at the gates. His fists were clenched tight, his face was hot, he was filled with the anger of impotence.

And the cursed keeper merely smiled. “Indeed,” that man commented, “you do confirm my very worst fears of your intent.”

Talbot snarled, but the keeper stepped toward his hut, oblivious to the knight outside his own gates.