Lady Fortune (22 page)

She shuddered. She had no reason to suppose there were rats in this place, but the way her luck had been running recently, she wouldn’t be surprised. She had already encountered the two-legged variety here.

The kitchens must be somewhere out beyond the Great Hall, adjacent to the courtyard and the gardens. If she moved carefully, blended into the shadows, and had any kind of luck at all, she wouldn’t run into anyone.

She had no faith in her particular brand of luck nowadays, but she was too hungry not to risk it. That, and the kitten would end up eating her hair if she didn’t find it something a bit more nourishing.

The smell of food drew her, the lingering remnants of roasted meats floating in the air, and she followed her nose, down the long corridor that skirted the Great Hall, past the snoring bodies of a dozen men and dogs, into the huge kitchens that provided food for all the sundry inhabitants of
Fortham
Castle
. Unfortunately, what the castle lacked in general housekeeping, it made up for in regimen. Even in the dark Julianna could see the place was spotless—no joints of meat, no wheels of cheese just waiting to be sliced.

It didn’t take long for her to find the larder. Cheese and milk, meat and pies, everything a hungry woman and her kitten could want.

Julianna sat cross-legged on the earthen floor, the kitten in her lap, and proceeded to share a feast. Hugelina was partial to onion pie and bits of mutton, while Julianna preferred the dried apples and strong cheese. “This is splendid, Hugelina,” she said. “Now if we only had a flagon of wine for me and milk for you…”

She let the words trail off as the memory of the missing chalice came back with force, and the food she’d stuffed in her mouth didn’t seem to be very effective at stopping the sudden upwelling of tears. Hugelina clawed her tiny way up Julianna’s dress, purring wildly, and began licking the tears off her face, her tongue rough and comforting as she licked the salt from Julianna’s cheek.

“Yes, I know I’m a fool, a far greater one than Master Nicholas…” she told the kitten in a conversational tone, only to have her voice trail off as she heard the sound of voices in the kitchen, just outside the larder.

She froze, in complete panic. What if someone else was in search of a late-night feast? What in the world would she say if they opened the larder and found her there, barefoot and bedraggled?

“You’re a right bold lad, you are,” a woman’s voice carried into the deep recesses of the larder. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of that good joint of pork you’re carrying in your breeches.”

The woman was hungry, Julianna thought miserably. She could sympathize. But why in the world would a man be carrying food in his breeches?

“More than enough to keep you happy, saucy one,” the man rumbled in return. Julianna heard a crash, a noisy thump, and a startled
oof
, followed by a strange creaking sound.

She couldn’t imagine what in the world they were doing. She’d never heard of a meal making such odd sounds, though they certainly seemed to be enjoying it, given the grunts and gasps of pleasure.

Whatever they were eating, it sounded as if it were far more enjoyable than her small feast. She hadn’t noticed any food out there, but maybe she’d missed something choice.

The kitten had fallen asleep, happily sated. Julianna moved slowly to the door that was left just slightly ajar, wondering whether she could be brazen enough to saunter out into the kitchen. Perhaps they were having something she could share.

She pushed open the door, about to announce her presence, when shock struck her dumb. The man and woman in the room weren’t partaking of a feast—at least not of the food sort.

The woman, clearly one of the serving women if Julianna could tell by the clothes that were tossed up to her waist, was lying across the kitchen table, being happily serviced by one of Lord Hugh’s men. Neither of them was the slightest bit aware of anyone else in the room, too happily involved in their sport, and Julianna was frozen, unable to move, staring at them in disbelief.

The man was obviously deformed, and yet the woman’s groans were clearly sounds of pleasure, not dismay. Vague memories came back to Julianna, of watching animals in the fields surrounding her childhood home, but she’d always assumed that animals were different from humans.

But perhaps not so different as she had believed. She could feel the heat flaming her cheeks in wonder and embarrassment, and a moment later she managed to escape, unseen, from the shocking sight on the kitchen table.

She had no idea where she was going, and she was beyond caring. Her world had shifted once again, and she had no idea what to think, what to believe. She found herself outside in the biting rain, her bare feet in the puddles in the soaking darkness that surrounded her. The kitten squealed in protest, taking a leap off her and disappearing into the darkness, and Julianna let out a cry of despair. Nothing was as she’d believed it to be. She could trust nothing—except perhaps the love of a tiny kitten. She wasn’t going to abandon it in a courtyard full of dangers.

She wasn’t going to find her either, no matter how hard she searched. Even in broad daylight the kitten was too small. In the middle of the night she was truly lost.

Julianna wouldn’t give up the hunt. The rain continued to pour down, and her feet were like blocks of ice as she moved through the courtyard. Slowly, slowly the sky began to lighten almost imperceptibly in the chill dawn of a gloomy day, but no kitten answered Julianna’s plaintive calls. Hugelina had enough sense to get in out of the rain.

She should go back in, Julianna told herself wearily. The kitten could take care of itself—it was probably back in the stables with its mother, or perhaps in search of a rodent dessert after its feast of mutton and onions. The household would be stirring soon, and she needed to be safe in her room, out of her wet clothes.

But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t even bring herself to find shelter in Saint Hugelina’s abandoned chapel. She’d looked there first, but the kitten was not to be found in its namesake’s home.

If she could just manage to stir herself, she could make it to the chapel and sleep, but her feet were numb and the heaviness of her wet clothes slowed her down. She gave up, leaning against the side of the chapel, then slowly sliding down into a little bundle on the ground and closing her eyes.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The voice was cool, crisp, demanding, but she didn’t even have the energy to lift her eyelids and see who was there. No one who’d ever spoken to her before, of that she was certain.

He squatted down beside her in the rain, and she felt a warm, dry hand touch her wet face with surprising gentleness. She opened her eyes for a moment, staring into the fool’s dispassionate gaze. Not the fool, she reminded herself. This man had sounded far too cool and rational to be the mad Master Nicholas. She closed her eyes again, dismissing him. He was simply a figment of her imagination.

If so, he was an awfully solid, awfully strong figment. With a muttered oath he slid his hands beneath her and hoisted her into his arms, rising with surprisingly little effort. She supposed she should make some sort of token protest, but she was too cold and too miserable to attempt it.

She simply let her head rest against his shoulder. Solid, strong shoulder. And she let him carry her in out of the rain.

She was a damp, limp bundle in his arms, curled up against his chest with surprising trust. He wondered if she was delirious from fever. He didn’t think so—she felt chilled rather than hot, and in his experience fevers seldom came on that quickly. A healthy woman could spend the night wandering barefoot in the freezing rain and suffer no more than cold feet. Julianna of Moncrieff was a healthy young woman. He wondered if she’d let him warm her feet.

He’d slept fitfully, and with little wonder. He’d never been one to need much sleep—it had absolutely nothing to do with the nagging sense of guilt that had tormented him since Julianna had walked in on him. She had had no right to look so betrayed—he’d never done anything to suggest he was a decent man. At best he was a poor, mad fool. At worst he was exactly who she saw when she looked up at him: a liar and a thief.

Perhaps he’d known, deep inside, where the chalice had ended up. He’d felt no surprise when Bogo came to his room; in fact, he’d been waiting for him, fully dressed, stretched out on the bed.

And Bogo had shown no surprise either. “You’re ready to go, master?”

“You have the chalice?” It was only a cursory question— he already knew the answer.

Bogo nodded. “You were right—the monk had it.” There was something strange in his rough voice, a note that Nicholas had never heard before. He swung his legs off the bed, looking at his old friend with a questioning expression.

“You sound bothered, Bogo,” he said. “Would you rather have left it with Brother Barth?”

Bogo shrugged, his swarthy face unreadable. “He’d only give it to the abbot and he’s no more worthy of the saint’s treasure than the king. At least if the king has it, we’ll get our reward.”

“Then why the regret?”

“Brother Barth is a good man. There are few enough of those around.”

“And that small number doesn’t include the likes of us.”

“Not that I’d expect,” said Bogo. But there was still that strange note in his voice, one almost of uncertainty, although Bogo was the kind of man who’d always known his course in life.

“Where’s the chalice now?” Nicholas asked.

“In my pack. How long will it take you to get ready?”

“I’m ready now.” No regrets, he reminded himself. She’d be better off without him.

Bogo nodded. “There’s a copse of woods half a mile to the east of the curtain wall. I’ve got two horses waiting for us.”

No hesitation, he warned himself. “You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll follow. We don’t want to risk getting caught by any of the earl’s men. If they stop me, I want you to go on ahead with the chalice. Take it to Henry.”

“And leave you here? Not on your life!”

“You’ll do as I say.”

“We haven’t been servant and master since you were a stripling. My job is looking after you, as I promised your mother I would, and no orders from you will stop me.”

Nicholas closed his eyes for a moment. “If we don’t bring Henry the chalice, then we’re no good to anyone. If I don’t come within the hour, then start without me. I’ll catch up.”

“On foot?” Bogo was frankly derisive.

But Nicholas’s mouth curved in a smile. “I haven’t needed looking after for many a year, Bogo. Don’t doubt I’ll survive. I’m like a cat—I have nine lives, and I’ve only wasted two or three.”

Bogo shook his head, his eyes narrowed in disapproval. “I’ll do as you say, but you make damned sure you’re close behind. And don’t doubt that I’ll come back looking for you.”

“You’d be a fool to.”

“Then that makes fools of us both.”

He’d had every intention of joining Bogo. Every intention of meeting him by that copse, of taking off into the darkness and leaving everything, in particular Julianna of Moncrieff, far behind.

But he hadn’t counted on seeing her huddled against the chapel in the soaking rain, looking like nothing so much as a lost kitten.

He’d told himself he’d simply see her safely out of the rain. She wouldn’t want more than that—she’d probably hit him if he touched her. But touch her he did, scooping her up in his arms, feeling the chill dampness of her body as she looked at him with despair.

She wasn’t looking at him now. Her eyes were closed, the lids blue-veined against her pale face. Paler than usual, he thought. She needed someone to warm her. And he needed to leave.

He had no idea when he made the decision, or if it was ever made at all. Her room, with its small bed and possible witnesses, was to the left. His vast, deserted room was to the right, away from watching eyes and babbling tongues. Away from everyone who might interfere or who might make him think better of the mad course he was suddenly intent on following.

She was so damp and cold and still in his arms. A decent man would find her mother or a serving woman to strip her wet clothes from her and warm her with soup and a hot fire.

He wasn’t a decent man. He would strip her wet clothes from her body himself, and there were better ways to warm her. Much better ways.

The household would be stirring in the pre-dawn light, but he had no difficulty avoiding witnesses, his bundle tucked safely in his arms. By the time he reached his room he was trembling—she was no lightweight, and it had been a long climb. He managed to lever the door open with his shoulder, then kicked it shut behind him. The room was still warm from the fire, and he carried her over to the bed, setting her down carefully on her feet.

She clung to him, her face buried against his shoulder, refusing to let go. "You need to get out of those wet clothes, my lady,” he murmured, half expecting her to react with outraged affront, and then he could leave.

She lifted her head then, looking at him in the shadowed room. He could see her quite clearly, the calm brown eyes, the pale, damp skin. She didn’t look around her—she must have known where he’d taken her, known she was alone with him. Known and not cared.

“Why did you bring me here?”

He was still holding her, supporting her damp body in his arms. He released her suddenly, taking a step away from her, and she swayed slightly. “Why?” she asked again.

There was a bench by the fire, one of the few pieces of furniture the room boasted. He sat, stretching his long legs out in front of him, shielding his expression. “To seduce you,” he said mildly. “It seemed time. I imagine Lord Hugh will send me packing, and I had no intention of leaving without having you first.”

“Having me first,” she echoed.

He waited for her fury. He’d have to touch her then, and things would proceed normally, but he was oddly loath to initiate it. He’d been dreaming about her, lusting after her, for so long that he was almost afraid to consummate it. Maybe he’d be better off with just the memory of her, the possibility that he’d never tasted.

And someone else would have her. Show her what she’d missed. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

He waited, patient. Expectant. The night was almost over. The fire had nearly died, and soon the first tendrils of light would splinter through the shutters, their time would be over, and he would be gone. He should be impatient, tearing at her gown, overcoming her protests, but he was oddly calm.

To his surprise she sat down on the side of the bed, and he could see her bare feet beneath the long, loose gown. She’d been out in that icy rain with no shoes, and she was still cold and damp. He could warm her with his hands, his skin, his body. He could melt her from inside out, and he didn’t know what he was waiting for. But still he waited.

“I saw…” she began, but the words trailed off.

“What did you see?”

“Two people in the kitchen. On the table. They didn’t see me.”

He understood what she was saying immediately. “They must have provided you with quite an education,” he said mildly enough. “I’m surprised you’ve remained so innocent for so long.”

“My husband’s estate was secluded, and I never went anywhere. Never saw anyone but him and the servants.”

“And you had no idea that what went on between a man and a woman was any different from what he managed?”

She jerked her head up, and he could see a blush stain her cheeks, banishing the pale color. Maybe he could make her blush all over, warming her that way. He still didn’t move.

“My husband had sired four children in wedlock and countless others besides,” she said sharply. “I assumed he knew what he was doing.”

“He was an old man. Old men can lose their vigor.”

“Old men father babies. My body won’t give me one. I’ve made my peace with that.”

He didn’t chide her for being a liar. “Then you’re free to take your pleasure without fear of consequences. You’ll bear no mad, nameless brat of mine. You’ll be…” His voice grew silent at the expression on her face.

She made no attempt to hide it, perhaps assuming it was too dark for him to see, or that he simply wouldn’t care. But he’d made his way in this world through his ability to read people, and the look in her eyes shocked and humbled him. She
wanted
his child, his mad, nameless brat. And she wanted him, devil and liar that he was.

She loved him.

It was a horrifying realization. Women had loved him before—how could they help themselves, when he charmed and flattered and pleasured them into mindlessness? It was the mindlessness that was his gift. No wise, careful woman would make the mistake of loving him.

Julianna had no reason to love him, every reason to hate him. They’d shared no more than a few kisses, a clever caress or two. There was no future for them, and yet she looked at him as if he were…

“Don’t,” he said harshly, suddenly angry.

“Don’t what?”

“I’ll take you back to your room.”

She didn’t move, sitting on his bed as if she belonged there. And in his heart he knew that was exactly where she did indeed belong, lying on her back, looking up into his eyes.

“Why?” she looked confused, vulnerable. “I thought you brought me here to seduce me.”

“I’ve thought better of it.” He truly was mad, he thought despairingly. She wasn’t fighting him, when he was expecting a battle. She seemed almost happy. She would lie on her back and lift her skirts for him and he would take his pleasure, and what would it matter if she loved him? He would leave, and she would forget.

But he wouldn’t leave, and he wouldn’t forget her. The touch of her, the scent of her, the taste of her. He was a fool indeed, to be so caught up in her spell.