Scoundrel of Dunborough (9 page)

“Thank you, Gerrard,” Eua mumbled as he handed her a loaf of bread. “You always were a good boy.”

A good boy she had never really loved, he thought, trying to keep his expression stoic.

“You can stay one night, Eua,” he reminded her, setting down a wooden bowl of stew.

Celeste no doubt thought him cruel, but she didn’t know what Eua had done. The harm she’d caused, the way she’d hurt him, and not only when the truth about Dalfrid had been revealed.

Gerrard would never forget the day he’d realized that Eua’s affection was his so long as he paid for it with compliments and little gifts. He had been six years old when she’d threatened to tell his father that he’d chased the chickens until one dropped dead. He’d begged her not to and she had stood there hard as stone until he’d promised to give her a copper-and-enamel bracelet that had been his mother’s. He’d found it in the grass in the garden, glistening near a rock, and she had discovered it in his little box of treasures. Most were worthless to anyone save him: an interesting stone, a bit of colored glass, the shed skin of a snake, a brass buckle. Nothing except the bracelet had any value.

From that day on, he was aware he had to buy the love he craved.

Eua took a bite from the loaf, then reached out and grasped his hand in her cold, dirty ones. “Thank you, my precious boy.”

He didn’t want her thanks. He wanted her gone, the same way he’d thought he’d wanted Celeste gone, until she’d looked at him with sincere gratitude and thanked him for his help.

She was not a woman he should have anything to do with. She wanted the church, not a man.

“One night,” he repeated firmly, heading for the door. “One night in the stable, Eua, and then you must go.”

Chapter Nine

T
he next day the garrison commander of Dunborough stood at the window high in the castle keep, in an upper room his father and brothers used as a solar, and where the records of the estate were kept. From here, he could see over the roofs of the village, all the way to the big house of the D’Orleaus—or he could have if it wasn’t raining, a cold, chill rain that felt like needles on the skin.

So here he was, shut up in the solar like a prisoner, trying to start a letter to his brother.

As well as finally decide what he would do about Roland’s offer.

There were other obstacles besides his own reluctance to be beholden to his brother. King John would have to agree, for one thing. Roland was confident the king would be quick to approve the gift, for it would mean less land and power in one man’s hands.

But how could Gerrard govern a place where his reputation was against him? Where he was still viewed as a wastrel, a sot and a gamester? To be sure, the soldiers liked him—he seemed like one of them and, indeed, felt that way most of the time.

Commanding soldiers was different from running an estate, though, as these few weeks had made clear. Perhaps it would be better to be a simple soldier and start afresh somewhere else, to make his own way in the world and be beholden to no one.

With a sigh, he went back to the table where he’d set out a pot of ink covered with waxed cloth and a piece of clean parchment in preparation for composing an answer to Roland’s letter. Gerrard selected three quills and picked up the small knife to strip off the lower feathers and sharpen the point of the shaft. Once that was done, he sat down and studied again the message he’d received from his brother.

As always, the written letters often looked backward and in the wrong order, as if someone was writing in code, and it took him a long time to decipher every word. Only once had he ventured to tell anyone about his difficulties reading. Roland had regarded him as if he were completely stupid, and so, Gerrard reckoned, he must be when it came to reading—and writing, which was worse.

Thank God he was good at other things, such as getting people to like him.

In that he was alone among his family. Broderick had wanted everyone to fear him, as had their father. Roland didn’t seem to care what people thought about him. Only Gerrard wanted everybody to like him, and it pained him when they didn’t.

He studied the scroll again and the words slowly started to make sense. Roland began with a greeting and the assumption that all was well at Dunborough, despite whatever doubts he might secretly harbor.

Gerrard couldn’t fault Roland if he did have doubts. He was too well aware that his cautious brother had taken a leap of faith leaving him in command.

Even a month ago, no one, including himself, would have anticipated that. He, like most of the inhabitants of the estate, had expected Roland to send him away.

Instead, Roland had decided to go to DeLac to tell Lord Simon there would be no alliance between them, either by marriage or by treaty, and had left Gerrard temporarily in command.

Nobody had been more surprised than he when Roland returned with DeLac’s daughter as his bride, and no one was more surprised than he that Mavis genuinely loved and admired Roland and condemned him—Gerrard—for acting like a spoiled brat.

He would never forget how she’d upbraided him and pointed out that his insolent treatment of his brother undermined people’s respect for both of them. Her words had stung more when he’d realized she was right.

Then he’d found out about Dalfrid, and Roland had been attacked by Duncan MacHeath and nearly died.

Gerrard ran his hand through his hair. If he accepted Roland’s offer, perhaps he could learn to rule in time. Maybe he could become patient and thoughtful and grow to understand all the financial business attendant on that task, or else find a clerk to help him.

Freedom from his reputation and any expectations had its own appeal, though. He could leave behind his past and all the bitter pain and unhappy memories, as well. There weren’t many good ones here.

There would be even fewer when Celeste returned to the convent.

What the devil did she have to do with his decision?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Stay and be beholden, or go and be free, yet without lands and title. How could he decide?

He couldn’t. Not today.

He looked out the window and realized the rain had stopped. Water dripped from the roof and the ground would be soaked, but Roland could wait another day or two. Arnhelm would undoubtedly be happy to stay in Dunborough awhile longer and he had better things to do.

Or if not better, at least more entertaining.

* * *

Celeste put the salted cod she had purchased from the fishmonger into her basket and, making her way around a puddle, hurried past the chandler’s shop. She didn’t want to see Norbert, or for him to see her. He’d come to the house once already to ask when she was going to sell it and—

“Sister Augustine!”

Too late.

She turned toward the chandler. “Good day, Norbert. It turned into a fine day, did it not? And warm for November.”

“We won’t have many good days left for traveling.”

The man likely couldn’t be subtle if he was offered the king of England’s crown to be so. “No, I daresay you’re right,” she replied, keeping a placid smile on her face.

“What are you up to now, Norbert?” Ewald boomed from behind her. “Harassing the good sister, I don’t doubt!”

“I’m doing nothing of the kind. We’re talking about the weather,” Norbert retorted, his narrow face looking longer with his frown.

“It’ll be cold and snowing before much longer. And wet. All the signs point to a wet winter. The roads’ll be a muddy mess.”

Apparently Ewald was no more subtle than his enemy.

“I hope to be on my way in a few days,” Celeste said, trying not to sigh with impatience, weariness and dismay.

She didn’t need them to remind her that she would have to sell the house soon if she was to leave Dunborough before the harsh winter weather arrived. She would have sold the house, paid the debts and been gone already if she’d found her father’s hidden wealth.

Unfortunately for them all, she had not, and she was beginning to fear she never would. She was also beginning to doubt that it had ever existed. It might have been a lie her father had told to torment their unhappy mother.

Celeste had started to wonder if she should accept that she would never find the treasure. She’d spent so much of her nights searching fruitlessly, she was near exhaustion.

At least nobody from the convent had come looking for her.

“As I’ve said, I’ll make you a good offer.” Ewald spoke so loudly, half the people in the market turned to look at them.

“I’ll make a better one,” Norbert declared, “and I won’t rush you from the premises. You can leave whenever it suits you.”

“You make it sound as if I’ll throw her out the door,” Ewald grumbled.

“Won’t you?”

“Sweet Jesu, no, you little—”

“Please don’t squabble,” Celeste pleaded, her patience nearly at an end. “I will sell when
I
am ready, and not before.”

She hurried past them, although not fast enough that she didn’t hear them continue to argue and call each other names. She’d had her fill of childish quarrels when she was young, and at least Gerrard and Roland had
been
children then.

Norbert and Ewald could wait some time longer, she decided. She wouldn’t give up yet. She would look for another week, and if she hadn’t found the treasure by then, she’d sell the house, pay what debts she could and seek another convent to take her in.

“Here, Sister, let me help you!”

With a start, she realized Lewis was at her elbow.

Although she didn’t require any assistance, the youth appeared so eager, she didn’t have the heart to send him on his way.

Instead, she let him take the basket containing butter, dried apples and the salted cod. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry about my father,” he said, falling into step beside her. “He shouldn’t keep bothering you about the house.”

“It does have to be sold.”

“But not
right
away,” Lewis replied. “It must be difficult for you, having to sort through everything.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m sure you’ll get a good price when you do decide to sell. I overheard you dealing with the fishmonger. You drive a harder bargain than my father! I daresay you could hold your own even in London.”

Celeste gave the young man a smile, although his compliment conjured unhappy memories. “I learned to bargain at my father’s knee.”

She’d also heard the whispered insults and curses when the bargaining was over and her parsimonious father not in the room.

She caught sight of Gerrard striding through the market and instinctively ducked into the nearest doorway. She was still ashamed and embarrassed by how she’d acted the day she’d encountered Eua, and didn’t want to meet him.

She was surprised that he was alone, for he so rarely was.

Clearly, he enjoyed the company of the soldiers of the garrison and was comfortable among them in a way Broderick and Roland never were. He was not an aloof lordling to them, but a respected leader and good comrade—a rare combination.

“I don’t like him, either,” Lewis muttered, frowning as Gerrard passed by. “He rides as if he’s the lord, although he’s only the garrison commander. He wouldn’t even be that if he hadn’t found out about Dalfrid and brought him back for trial.”

Dalfrid—the steward Eua had been in league with.

“He was the steward of Dunborough and Gerrard discovered he’d been stealing to keep a mistress in York.”

Obviously Lewis didn’t think she’d heard about that. “Lizabet told me something about it,” Celeste said. “I’m surprised anyone would try to steal from Dunborough. Sir Blane would have had him put to death at once on suspicion alone.”

“Not Roland.”

Neither had Gerrard, despite his impetuous temper.

“Dalfrid’s been taken to York for his trial. It shouldn’t be long now.”

Once Gerrard had disappeared among the crowd, Celeste started toward her house again. “You said it was Gerrard who discovered the man was stealing?”

“Merely by chance,” Lewis replied with a hint of defiant scorn. “He’d gone to York after another argument with Roland, swearing he would never come back. He was in a tavern when he overheard some men talking about Dalfrid, and figured out something wasn’t right.

“Of course it would be in a tavern,” Lewis noted with more disdain. “The men he called friends!” he added when Celeste didn’t reply. “Rogues and wastrels and gamesters the lot of them. The last of his cronies were the worst, though.”

“His brother wouldn’t have been pleased that he had such companions.”

Indeed, she could think of fewer things that would drive the dour, dutiful Roland to distraction, which might very well have been Gerrard’s plan at the time.

“Roland sent them away and they turned outlaw.”

“Is that why Gerrard rides out on patrol every day?”

Lewis shrugged. “The outlaws in the band his friends joined are all dead or scattered. Gerrard just likes to ride around on his fine white horse, lording it over everyone, while Roland’s at his wife’s estate. Roland and his wife seem quite happy together, no thanks to Gerrard. He made trouble for them from the moment she arrived.”

Celeste’s heart sank a little. Unfortunately, she could see Gerrard being envious of his brother’s marriage to a nobleman’s daughter and knew that he would take no pains to hide it.

“He didn’t dare try to seduce her, though, much as he might have wanted to. Roland would have killed him.”

Celeste felt a chill that was not from the breeze. Yes, Roland would probably have attacked Gerrard if his brother had tried such a thing. Nevertheless, she wanted to believe it was something other than fear that had prevented Gerrard from any attempt at seduction.

“He’d finally met a woman who didn’t like him,” Lewis added with a snide little laugh. “Lady Mavis saw him for the scoundrel he is, no matter how much he tries to pretend he’s changed since Roland got hurt and let him stay on as commander of the garrison.

“Gerrard doesn’t only drink and gamble,” Lewis continued. He lowered his voice. “There’s a place in the village, down an alley, with women who—”

“I don’t need to hear all of Gerrard’s vices.”

Celeste had heard more than enough already. Fortunately, they had reached the gate to her yard.

“I’m sorry if I upset you, Sister.”

She was sorry she’d let it show. “It’s always disturbing to learn of men’s sins,” she said by way of explanation. She took back the basket and gave Lewis another smile. “Thank you again.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Sister?” the young man asked fervently. “Anything at all?”

“As a matter of fact, there is one thing.”

The youth’s face lit up. “Yes?”

“There are several gowns that belonged to my sister that should be sold. Can you think of anyone who—”

“Absolutely, Sister! Bartholemew and Marmaduke. They sell fabric. Some of it comes from London.”

“Would it be too much trouble for you to ask them to visit me today, unless they’re otherwise engaged?”

“I’ll fetch them at once!”

“Only if it’s convenient!” she called as the young man dashed back toward town.

He’s an excitable lad
, she thought as she walked into the house. Enthusiastic, kindhearted, yet also capable of derision and anger. In that, he wasn’t so different from the youthful Gerrard, who had once had such promise and now...?

And now she must try to see Gerrard as he truly was, not as she wished him to be.