Lady Fortune (4 page)

The litter was empty, and she told herself it was relief that swept through her, not disappointment. She hadn’t been able to rid herself of that vision of his flesh, vast expanses of golden, muscled skin, and she was just as glad someone else would have to put up with him for the final leg of this too-short journey.

Unless Father Paulus had had his way and Master Nicholas had been whipped to a state where he was unfit to travel.

A moment later the curtains of the litter were pushed open, and the fool was dumped inside. They moved forward immediately, before Nicholas could regain his balance, and in the curtained dimness of the litter she could barely make him out Sir Richard, or someone, had been as good as his word.

Master Nicholas Strangefellow was bound and gagged, his saucy mouth sealed by a strip of cloth, his hands and feet tied closely with thongs of leather. He was even blindfolded, his wicked, mocking eyes sealed shut with another strip of cloth.

She stared at him in silence as they moved forward. He had dressed, or someone had dressed him, but she could still see the golden skin of his chest as it rose and fell with the calm evenness of his breathing. He barely moved, seemingly at ease in his trussed-up state, and she told herself she should be profoundly grateful. He was in no condition to bother her during the final hours of her journey home.

And he certainly deserved some sort of punishment for his blasphemy in the chapel. She wasn’t quite sure why nudity was a sacrilege, but since the abbot seemed to be certain it was, she would hardly argue the fact. She leaned back against the cushions, watching him. She could hear the murmur of voices behind the closed curtains of the litter, the sounds of the horses as they moved steadily westward, and she told herself to enjoy the peace.

She lasted almost an hour before she moved forward on her knees and reached for the blindfold. He sat motionless, not even jumping when her hands touched his cool skin, and she untied the cloth that was knotted around his eyes and pulled it away.

He blinked, looking at her over the strip of material that bound his mouth. And
then
he raised a questioning eyebrow, once more reminding her of a curious hawk.

“I should leave you like that,” she said in a cross voice. “That behavior in the chapel was disgraceful! I can’t imagine why you would do such a thing. It’s lucky that the abbot didn’t manage to have you flogged—I’m certain you deserved it.”

He couldn’t say anything, of course, and she was half tempted to lecture on to her captive audience, except that she was always scrupulously fair.

“If I untie you, will you behave yourself?” she demanded.

He just looked at her, offering no promises, and she sat back, folding her hands in her lap, prepared to be firm.

She tried to close her eyes, humming to herself. She pushed aside the heavy curtain and peered out at the countryside, but since her view was the rump of Father Paulus’s mule she shut it fairly quickly.

It was too dim and too bouncy in the litter for needlework, and there was a limit as to how long she could ignore the patient, watching man.

She rose on her knees again, sighing loudly. “I don’t understand how you can be so bothersome even when you aren’t saying or doing anything,” she grumbled. “Lean forward and I’ll unfasten the gag.”

He leaned forward obediently, his silken hair falling in his face. It took her a while to unfasten the knot, and all the while he was perilously close to her chest. She wore layers of linen and silk and wool, and she could still feel his breath on her skin. Her hands were clumsy, oddly trembling, and when she finally loosened the gag, she sank back on her side of the litter, letting out her pent-up breath when she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding it in.

He shook his head free of the cloth, his long hair falling away from his face. She waited for him to speak, to thank her, but he said nothing, patient, watching her. And then he made a faint, shrugging gesture, to call her attention to his still-bound wrists.

“You could thank me, you know,” she muttered. “Turn around and I’ll untie you.”

He didn’t move. In truth, she couldn’t blame him— the litter was cramped, stuffed with pillows, and shifting around would be difficult indeed. He managed to turn toward her, just slightly, but she had no choice but to lean up against him in order to reach the leather thongs that bound him.

They were almost as stubborn as the cloth knotted around his mouth, and she was so intent on loosening them that it took a while for her to notice a few salient points: how warm and hard his body was against hers, with the resilience of muscle and sinew beneath the soft fabric of his tunic; how still he was, calm and silent, as she struggled with the leather; and how the back of his tunic was slowly staining dark red.

The leather knot finally gave way, and his hands were free. Her balance failed, and she fell against him, but his hands came up to catch her, holding her mere inches from his body. Close enough to feel the tension, feel the heat. Close enough to look up into his utterly expressionless eyes and wonder what it would be like… what it would feel like…

And then she saw the blood. She jerked away from him in shock. “What did they do to you?”

For a moment she didn’t think he would answer. And then his mobile, mocking mouth curved in a wicked smile. “Father Paulus did his best to flay me alive.” His voice was raspy, dry. “He’s surprisingly strong for such a skinny little man.”

“Perhaps he has the strength of his convictions,” Julianna said in an unsteady voice, turning away to rummage among the pillows for her satchel.

“Perhaps. Or he may have simply had enough practice with the whip to build up his strength. What are you looking for?”

She emerged from the cushions with a small, earthen-ware jar. “A salve of bee’s pollen and lingonberry juice. It works wonders on cuts. Take off your tunic.”

“I think not,” he said with a wry smile that belied his obvious pain.

She tilted her head to look at him. “I can safely rule out any fancy that you’re modest,” she said. “So I can only assume you don’t trust me. There’s no poison in this salve, and it will help the welts to heal more quickly.”

“You don’t have the soul of a poisoner, my lady,” he murmured. “Nevertheless, I’ll keep my clothes on for now.”

Julianna didn’t know whether to be pleased or affronted. “And just what makes you an expert on my soul? I assure you, I have more than enough determination and courage to… to…”

“To murder someone? I doubt it, my lady. Courage and determination, yes. Murderous tendencies, no.”

“You’re right,” she said flatly. “Because one hour with you would bring them out if I had any.”

He threw back his head and laughed, dismissing his injuries. “Then I can count myself honored to have done such a service.”

“A service?”

“You need never worry what dark urges you have hidden deep in your heart. You’ve faced the worst that life could taunt you with, and you’re free of the taint of murder. Of course, you may have other dark urges. I will do my best to help ferret them out.”

“I have no dark urges. Only for peace and quiet,” she said in a sharp voice.

He merely smiled in return.

He could love a woman like Julianna of Moncrieff, Nicholas thought, staring at her. Mind you, he could love any number of women, well and often, and did so to the best of his ability. But he sensed that the lady Julianna was different.

If he were a sensible man, he’d keep his distance. Different could mean dangerous, and he wasn’t about to let himself become vulnerable to a pair of shadowed eyes and a soft mouth.

But he also wasn’t a man to hide from danger—he was more likely to ride out to meet it. That is, if he were riding.

And Julianna of Moncrieff was a challenge and a temptation, and he never resisted either. She was going to be his reward for success at
Fortham
Castle
. Not his sovereign’s approval or long-promised boon, though those would be welcome. No, the shy, tender flesh of the lady would be his true compensation for a treacherous job well done. Absconding with a priceless relic would be a simple task. Seducing Lady Julianna would prove the real challenge, and he relished the thought of it.

He was impatient for the task to begin, more than ready for the Earl of Fortham. King Henry was generous to those who served him, and Nicholas had yet to fail him in his requests. He wasn’t about to start now.

He was ready for the job to begin.

He was eager for his reward.

Isabeau moved away from the window, kicking restlessly at her skirts. She was almost feverish with anticipation, and yet there was no way she could make time move more quickly. The passing hours would bring her daughter back to her after ten long years of silence. The passing hours would bring her wedding as well, and a new man to lie beneath, but she was not unwilling. Hugh of Fortham was not a harsh man like her first husband, and he would likely be quick and efficient about the business. In the months of their betrothal, since she first came to live at
Fortham
Castle
, he’d never so much as kissed her cheek, much less shown any sign of overwhelming passion. Nothing to suggest he was interested in anything more than the speedy conception of an heir.

Before she’d heard that Julianna would be joining her, she’d allowed herself to wonder about the man she’d been betrothed to. Hugh of Fortham was a powerful man, whose first and second wives had died young. He was in the prime of life, a big, handsome man full of noise and energy, yet he barely talked to her or seemed to be aware of her presence at his remote castle. The match had been arranged by the king, and she would have thought Hugh a disinterested bridegroom if it weren’t for the knowledge that he himself had sought out the marriage. He’d had any number of suitable choices, including those with a more optimistic future in childbirth, but he had chosen her, and she couldn’t imagine why.

It wasn’t the first time she’d met him, though of course he didn’t remember. Years ago, when Julianna was still a child, she’d spent a few minutes with a sweet young knight, a few moments of gentleness that she’d treasured over the long years. He’d been kind, when she’d been weeping and miserable and as pregnant as a cow. If he remembered her, he’d probably run in the opposite direction, and she made no attempt to remind him.

She watched him at times, surreptitiously, though why a woman shouldn’t look at her betrothed was an issue she didn’t bother to ponder. Her first husband had been a short, spare man. Hugh was massive, towering over everyone in the court, with strong arms and shoulders and long, powerful legs. His face was pleasing, though his dark eyes were distant when they rested on her, and she found herself occasionally thinking about his mouth…

She drew back from such wicked thoughts. Her first husband had been a hard man, but not entirely unskilled when it came to the marriage bed. The thought of sharing those same acts with a man such as Lord Hugh was oddly unsettling. She’d learned to separate her pleasure in the intimate act from her dislike of her husband. The thought of receiving that kind of pleasure from someone she had grown to care about was almost frightening.

She would find out soon enough. And she had more important things to think on right now. The long-awaited arrival of her lost daughter. And the worrisome presence of Hugh’s new fosterling.

Young Gilbert was a charmer. A handsome, sweet-faced young boy, no more than a child really, who flattered and beguiled and delighted all those around him. Even her gruff betrothed seemed to look on him fondly. But Isabeau didn’t trust him.

Since she was, by nature, a quiet person, she had plenty of opportunity to observe without anyone realizing her watchfulness. She’d seen the coldness in Gilbert’s pretty eyes, felt the chill beneath his flattering smiles. He spent most of his days in training with the knights, and she kept telling herself she was imagining the faint hint of trouble that surrounded him. But then she would see him again, at table, or across the courtyard, and her instincts would become alert once more.

He was of an age that he could have been one of the many stillborn babes she had borne. She should have viewed him with maternal compassion instead of distrust. But she could no more ignore her instincts than she could fly.

She returned to her tapestry, plying the needle with careful, deliberate strokes. It was to be a gift to her new husband come Christmastide—a small hanging depicting one of his favorite dogs. He seemed to devote all his affection and attention to the silken-haired creatures, and it was the one thing Isabeau could think of to please him. One should want to please one’s husband, surely?

She noticed that her hands were shaking, and she let them rest in her lap. It was going to be impossible to concentrate.

Lord Hugh strode across the ramparts of Castle Fortham, his long legs moving impatiently. Gilbert was trying to keep up with him, but the lad had the rare gift of silence, for which Hugh was eternally grateful on such a momentous day. He was in no mood for prattlers, and his new fosterling showed a surprising sensitivity when it came to his lord’s needs.

He could see the party approaching in the distance, moving slowly enough. His grandfather had chosen wisely when he picked the site for
Fortham
Castle
—it gave a commanding view of the countryside approaches to the castle, and the back abutted the churning sea. No one could sneak up on the household without at least half the garrison being made aware. These were relatively peaceful times, but one could never take such things for granted.

He squinted down at the approaching party—some twenty strong on horseback, plus a horse-drawn litter that could only contain his new stepdaughter. Thinking about her brought him back to the distracting thought of his lady wife, another thorn in his side.

He must have been half mad to contract such a marriage. Isabeau was penniless, past her youth, and barren—marriage to her brought him nothing, not even the king’s grace, and he could have lived well without it. His people wondered at his accepting such a match, but they didn’t know the half of it. It had been a match of his own making.

He’d first seen Isabeau some fifteen years ago, and he’d never forgotten her. Her young daughter had been by her side, her belly was swollen with one of her many fruitless pregnancies, she was pale and frightened-looking, and he’d taken one look into her wide brown eyes and fallen…

He didn’t care to think about what he’d tumbled into. Infatuation. Lust. One of his odd fits of compassion. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words, and yet he’d dreamed about her for weeks afterwards. When he married his father’s choice for him, he’d sometimes seen Isabeau in his little wife’s pale face.

She’d died after less than a year of marriage, carried off by an ague. His second marriage, to a buxom, fruitful woman of hearty appetites and sturdy form, hadn’t lasted much longer, though this time it was a fall from a spirited horse that had killed her. A horse he’d forbidden her to ride, but Heloise had done so anyway, and died because of it, taking her unborn child with her.

He had been a widower since, ignoring his duty for the last ten years, content to live in this household of men, content with the easy pleasure offered by the serving women.

But all that had changed when he’d heard that Isabeau of Peckham was now a widow.

She could have grown old before her time, or sadly fat, or querulous. It didn’t matter. He still dreamed of her. Castle Fortham needed a mistress; he needed a wife. He had married twice for the sake of an heir, for the sake of his duty, and both times the match had ended in early death, with no heir.

This time he would choose for himself.

He was a strong, fearless man, capable of facing an army without flinching, implacable in combat, fierce in battle, totally without hesitation when it came to danger. Courage was synonymous with Hugh of Fortham’s name.

But the thought of finally speaking with Isabeau of Peckham terrified him.

He’d been on these very battlements, watching for her arrival, in a fever of anticipation, not three months earlier. He’d planned how he would treat her with loving concern, tender forbearance for her age and infirmity. He expected a semi-invalid, sweet and long-suffering and infinitely gentle.

He was struck speechless when he first saw her and had rarely managed to get words past his mouth in the ensuing occasions when they came together.

She looked younger than she had fifteen years ago; he knew her to be a few years past thirty. Only her first pregnancy had yielded a living offspring, and Julianna was already widowed herself, which made Isabeau five years younger than himself. He hadn’t known she would still be so beautiful.

Her face was a perfect oval beneath her veil of golden hair; her eyes were wise and knowing, staring up at him with mingled doubt and hope. She moved with perfect grace, her small, delicate body nicely rounded now that she was no longer bloated with the ravages of a fruitless pregnancy. And her voice, which had haunted him for years, greeted him with a soft, musical warmth as she made her curtsey to him, and he’d suddenly realized how very big a fool he’d been.

She was the epitome of a young man’s fancies. But he was no longer a young man, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted by boyish dreams.

He’d barely spoken two words to her in the weeks since she’d come to his home. He knew she had no memory of their previous meeting—it would have meant nothing to her, and he made no mention of it. By right he could have taken her into his bed, but he’d been curiously loath to do so, afraid that once the bond was sealed, there’d be no turning back. He’d honestly mourned his pale first wife. He’d wept over the needless death of his second and his unborn heir. He didn’t think he could bear losing the woman of his dreams.

“My lord…” Gilbert’s hesitant voice broke through his abstraction.

He glanced down at him. He was already quite a favorite with the ladies, though a trifle young for dalliance. He would be a good fighter as well, Hugh thought, though he might rely on brain more than brawn, which could be uncomfortably close to trickery.

“I know, lad,” he said wearily. “We should go down and greet the new members of the household, and make welcome the king’s messenger. Sir Richard is a good man and an old friend, though I doubt I’ll be pleased with whatever word he brings.”

“The king sent me to you, my lord,” Gilbert said anxiously. “Have I somehow displeased you?”

Hugh clapped a reassuring hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “You’re a good lad. And I’m sure whatever Sir Richard has brought us will be equally welcome.”

He was wrong, of course. Lady Isabeau was already waiting in the courtyard, and despite her calm expression he could sense the anxiety in her heart. He wanted to put his arm around her slender figure, draw her against him with wordless encouragement, but he made no move, merely nodding in a silent greeting.

She seemed barely aware of his presence, which served him well, and he stood beside her, waiting to greet his guests, as Sir Richard dismounted and moved stiffly toward his host.