Suzanne Robinson (2 page)

She crept into the Old Hall and stood at the base of the main stairs looking up. Aunt Livia’s stiff skirts disappeared above her, so she tiptoed after the woman, her own skirts lifted to her ankles. Stealing into her own chamber on the third floor, she snatched up her new cloak lined with squirrel fur and dashed back downstairs. As she went she could hear Livia’s booming voice in her great-uncle’s closet. Someday Livia would have a fit from her own choler.

Aunt Livia wanted her to don a farthingale and a gown as stiff as cold leather. Oriel couldn’t remember why, at the moment, but Livia’s reasons never made sense anyway. Proud of her stealth, Oriel hurried to the stables. She must go riding so that Nell wouldn’t be caught in a lie.

She returned an hour later. Having galloped the last few leagues, she was flushed and damp with sweat when she entered Richmond Hall once more. Livia was waiting for her. Oriel paused upon seeing her aunt, then gripped the carved stone newel post. Livia descended upon her from the first landing. A tall woman, she had the bulk of one of her hunting horses, and a habit of flaring her nostrils like one of them, as well. Though Oriel matched her in height, she did not in weight.
Once she would have shrunk away from Livia in anticipation of a slap. No longer. Oriel lifted her chin and her shoulders and met Livia’s gaze.

Livia came to rest on the last stair and swore at her. A fleshy hand twitched, and Oriel glanced at it, knowing how much damage that beringed fist could do. Then she stared at Livia. The woman swore again and put her hand behind her back.

“You strain all courtesy, girl. Would God I had the chastening of you still.”

“No doubt.”

“None of your clever retorts,” Livia said. “Have you forgotten that Lord Fitzstephen comes this day with his son? A match with his heir is above you, but Lord Andrew knew your father and has asked to meet you for some passing strange reason of his own.”

“Not so wondrous, Aunt. I’m an heiress now, or has your memory failed you? Grandfather saw to the matter.”

“You’re the one with the unfit memory. Why, your Aunt Faith and I took you in—”

“Who did you say was coming?”

Livia vented a storm of a sigh. “How haps it that you remember French, Italian, Latin, and Greek, but fail to remember the names of your suitors? Yesterday you even forgot to come down for supper.”

“It’s another suitor,” Oriel said with a long-suffering sigh.

Each visit from an eligible man increased her suffering. Grandfather had been dead only a few months, but Aunt Livia and Aunt Faith couldn’t wait to rid themselves of her. To their chagrin, Grandfather had left part of his fortune to Oriel—several caskets stuffed with jewels collected over the whole of his lifetime. Livia, as the wife of his eldest son, had expected to get most of them. Faith, the widow of the middle son, had wanted them all. Oriel, the only child of the youngest son,
shouldn’t have received a thing, and they begrudged her even the dust on top of the caskets.

She was a living reminder of riches lost, and they wanted her gone. Thus she had been forced to entertain the suit of every likely man in the county. For Oriel, the business was an ordeal. Never a great beauty, left with but a poor inheritance by her parents at their death, she’d spent most of her time at Richmond Hall studying with her great-uncle or riding.

Aunt Faith’s daughters Agnes and Amy were too young to provide companionship, while their sisters Jane and Joan harbored a spiteful resentment toward Oriel. Why this was so remained unclear, except that Jane and Joan were as plain as their names and bore spite toward anyone even the slightest bit more presentable than themselves. Livia’s sons were much older, except for Leslie, and even he was away much of the time.

“My lady!” The steward came bustling toward them, his chains of office clinking as he moved. “My lady, Lord Fitzstephen and his son are here.”

“God’s mercy.” Livia shoved Oriel up several steps. “Get you gone until I send for you. And put on a suitable gown, you addled goose.”

Oriel bolted upstairs, but stopped on the landing of the third floor and looked over the rail. The stair took right angles several times, and as she looked down to the bottom floor, she saw the swirling edge of a black cloak and heard the scrape of a sword sheath and ching of spurs.

She heard a voice. The voice of a man, a young man. Low, soft, and vibrant with tension, it caught her attention, trapped it, tugged at it. Hardly aware of her actions, she reversed her steps, following the voice as it floated up to the second floor and then faded toward the great chamber. Oriel darted after it, hovering on the landing, her upper body bent toward the sound.

What was it that drew her? She listened, and heard the voice respond to her aunt. There was something different
about this voice, something beyond the lure of its deep, quiet tones. Ah. An accent.

This young man spoke with an accent. Slight though it was, it gave the voice a distinct character. The
r’
s blurred, and sometimes the vowels stretched out. A French accent. How did the son of a border lord come to have even the barest of French accents? Aunt Livia had spoken to her of the visitors, but she hadn’t listened.

Oriel cocked her head to one side, but the voice was muffled now that its owner had entered the great chamber. She stole along the gallery, with its latticed windows and walls lined with paintings, until she neared the doors to the great chamber, where all noteworthy visitors were entertained.

Livia was speaking “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to retire for a while? I’ve sent for my niece, but your comfort is my greatest concern, my lord.”

“Thank you—”

“But we must needs make our visit a short one,” the accented voice said. “I take ship for France soon.”

“A pity,” Livia said. “Though I understand that you must attend to your holdings there. Your dear mother was French, and through her you hold a title?”

“Yes, my lady I am called the Sieur de Racine. But at home I am called Blade.”

Oriel peeped around the open door and saw her aunt standing beside the fireplace. The great chamber was the largest room in the house. Lofty of ceiling, paneled in carved and polished wood, it contained the largest fireplace outside the kitchens. Its chimneypiece had been carved of Italian marble, and its shining floors were covered with intricately woven Turkey carpets, a luxury of which Livia and cousin George were proud.

Upon one of these carpets, near Livia, stood an older man whose tall figure was thickened with age. He seemed to possess only one expression, a scowl, which he directed at a man standing with his back to the room,
gazing out the windows. All Oriel could see was a tall figure made even taller by a soft cap, the sweep of a black cloak, a silver sword sheath, and a pair of mud-spattered boots.

The young man spoke again, and as he did, he turned to face his hostess. Oriel beheld a pair of grey eyes so bright that they seemed silver. Straight brows echoed the dark brown-black hair beneath the cap. Now that he faced her, his body framed in the light of the windows, she could see the line of his mouth, with its full lower lip and contained tension. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and a heavy gold signet ring surrounded the third finger.

He walked toward the two by the fireplace, and as he came near, one of his brows arched. She caught the impression of much-tried patience, of skepticism and barely concealed mockery, all smoothed over by a grace of manner that spoke of the French court, rather than the border castle in which he had been born.

All at once he threw his cloak back over one shoulder, and rested his boot at the base of the marble chimneypiece. Oriel cocked her head to the side, fascinated by his smooth movements. He moved as if he was dancing in a masque. She was staring at a long leg, tracing the knot of muscles in a thigh, when he suddenly looked past Aunt Livia and saw her. His eyes widened, and he faced her without speaking.

Drawn by that unwavering silver stare, Oriel came out of hiding. She barely heard her aunt’s admonishments. She spared Lord Fitzstephen not a glance. Her whole attention fastened on this dark, graceful creature with the alluring voice and argent eyes. They stood opposite each other without speaking, and Oriel found herself trying to memorize the Sieur de Racine with her eyes. He met her gaze with a puzzled stare of his own, but soon, when she remained silently gawking at him, one corner of his mouth twitched.

“Mistress,” he said.

The sound of his voice broke the spell and wove another just as compelling. This was a suitor from whom she wouldn’t hide. When she didn’t reply, he glanced at Livia in inquiry.

“Oriel!”

She jumped. Livia’s brassy voice shattered her reverie, and she came to herself. What had she done? She had entered unannounced and stalked a young man like a huntress pursuing a deer. For once Oriel cursed her forgetfulness She had to say something.

“I—I …” He looked at her again, and she noticed a smooth cheek, the sharply angled line of his jaw, those startling eyes. All her wits scattered. “What was your name?”

This time both brows arched, and that arresting mouth drew down. “Marry, lady, do you forget the names of all your guests?”

“Oriel.” Livia hurried to them and gripped Oriel’s arm. “I marvel greatly at your lack of courtesy. Look at you. Your gown is besmirched, and you’re flushed. And your hair. Have you never been taught the use of pins or caps? Jesu Maria, come with me.”

Livia nodded to both men. “We will see to the bringing of wine and bread, my lords. Pray rest yourselves here”

Shutting the great chamber doors, Livia rounded on Oriel. “Worthless girl, your head is stuffed with learning and no sense. I’m going to the kitchens. Be off to your chamber and prepare yourself.”

Livia stomped downstairs, leaving Oriel to rush to her chamber and call Nell to aid her in changing her gown. Never had she imagined that her aunts could produce a suitor she would care to meet at all. But this one—the mere sound of his voice and sight of his body had dashed her prejudice asunder. This man she could imagine touching, an act she had so far avoided when confronted with the countless others her aunts had dragged to Richmond Hall.

As Nell laced and buttoned her into a gown and fussed with the small ruff at her neck, Oriel shuffled her feet with impatience. She was afraid the man would vanish, and she had forgotten his name in her obsession with his person.

What was it, that name he’d said? Blade, that was it. At last Nell was finished, except for her hair, and Oriel dashed back down to the great chamber. One of the doors was half open, and she couldn’t stop herself from peeping around it to catch sight of the young lord again.

They had been served wine and bread. The father was sitting before a table laden with a flagon, wine cups, and a tray with a loaf on it. Lord Fitzstephen was still scowling, and his complexion bore a flush. He poured himself a drink and downed the wine, sighing as he finished the whole goblet. His son, however, prowled about the great chamber, his cloak still about his shoulders and swinging with his strides. He stopped abruptly by the fireplace and glanced back at his father. The older man tore a chunk of bread from the loaf and began eating.

“May God damn you to the eternal fires,” Blade said.

Oriel had been about to push the door open, but paused as she heard the young man speak. The father said nothing. His mouth was full and he chewed calmly.

“This is the fourth girl you’ve dragged me to see, and the worst. She’s also the last.”

“Clean her up and she’ll be worth looking over. Jesu Maria, did you see that wild hair? Almost black, but with so much red to it there must be a spirit of fire in her to match.”

“I care not. Did you think to buy my return to your side with a virgin sacrifice?”

“It’s your duty to stay by my side and produce heirs.”

Blade crossed his arms over his chest and purred at
the other man. “It’s my duty not to kill you. That’s why you’re alive, dear Father.”

Lord Fitzstephen slammed his drinking cup on the table, and wine splashed out. He stood, rested his hands on the table, and glared at his son.

“I haven’t raised a hand to you since you took up with that foul thief, Jack Midnight.”

“No, Father, you’re wrong. You haven’t raised a hand to me since I was sixteen and big enough to hit back. I haven’t forgotten those lashings, or how you left me bleeding and locked in a bare stone chamber when I was but fourteen.”

A fist pounded the table so that the flagon and cups clattered. “My heir should bide in England, not France. You still fear me, or you wouldn’t run away.”

“You always did twist the truth to suit your illusions,” Blade said. “As I told you, I’ll come back when you’re dead. There’s nothing to keep me here now that you’ve driven Mother to her grave.”

“Your mother was a weakling, and you’re a coward, afraid to marry a feather of a girl like that Oriel.”

“God’s breath!” Blade took several steps toward his father, then halted and cursed again as he tried to strangle the hilt of his sword with one hand. “I won’t do it. I won’t marry her. She has eyes like dried peas and a pointy little face like a weasel, and she can’t even remember my name.”

“It’s Blade.” Oriel pushed the door back and stepped into the great chamber.

It had taken all her courage not to run away. His disdain had been so unexpected. He’d said those words so quickly she hadn’t understood their meaning immediately, and then she realized that while she had been enraptured, he had been offended by her and her appearance. All the years of encountering youths and men who paid her slight notice came thundering back into her memory. The evenings spent watching while others danced, the hunts spent pursuing a deer or fowl while
other girls were instead pursued themselves—these had driven her to seek comfort in learning and solitary pursuits.

Until today she’d scorned to seek the favor of men, for there lay the path to great hurt. She had forgotten herself and her fear this once, for the prize entranced her without warning, danced before her in the guise of a dark-haired lord with eyes like the silver edge of a cloud when lit by the sun behind it. She had forgotten, and now she paid the price.