Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (14 page)

“I want to trust you, Timothy. I do. But so much has changed. Can we not use supper tonight to become reacquainted? Can you not give me some time to adjust to this situation? I have little to gain and everything to lose.” She bit her soft, peachy lip in the most charming manner.

His heart beat fast, and no amount of willpower would still it this time. He recalled the feel of that lip against his own and pressed his mouth tightly against the tingling sensation, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose. “I can give you some time. Lord Wyndemere has been delayed. But we must deal with this before he returns. Once he is back, the decisions shall no longer be mine. I long to keep you safe. Allow me to do so.”

“Your Lord Wyndemere—is he a good man?”

Timothy had asked himself the same question time and again. He attempted to answer her as honestly as he could. “He is . . . a tough man, ruthless at times, but I have found him to be fair. He does not let his heart rule him, but he does have a strong sense of justice. The ghosts are thieves—there is no denying that—and he will show no mercy there. As for you, I cannot say. He is the king’s man through and through. They have been friends since childhood. Yet I’ve seen him stand against the king’s tantrums in the past and speak sense to the man.”

A flash of intelligence flickered in her eyes, and then she returned to her sweet docility and licked her lip.

He braced himself against the impact of the simple gesture but still felt as if he were melting into a puddle upon his chair.

“So you will take me to supper tonight? Do you think it is safe?” She fluttered her lashes again.

Timothy must hie himself out of this room before he succumbed to her charms completely. “Of course. I shall return in the evening.”

And with that, he hurried out the door.

As suppertime approached, Merry sat upon her bed strumming her lute in the candlelight, remorseful that she had let her stubborn anger keep her from enjoying the luxuries that Timothy had provided for so many days. Her journal sat beside her ready for the next line she might compose.

Since entering the forest two years ago, Merry had rarely found free time to play music. And although they had once stumbled upon a stack of parchment during a raid, they guarded it like the king’s own gold for special situations that might require it. She had turned over her own lute to Jane early on, along with a brief instructional session. Jane used it to play lullabies for the children and had even begged Merry to teach her some Scriptures so that she might sing those to them as well.

The tide of hope within her had grown to a flood over the past hours, and she had to admit, she looked forward to supper in the great hall with an excitement worthy of little Wren. She strummed a few more chords before dashing the accompanying words into the leather-bound book.

From the ashes sprouts a bud,

Standing strong despite the storm.

Small and green, it lifts its head,

Waiting for the drops so warm.

Would she be able to take the journal and lute with her when she escaped? She supposed it was unlikely if her men planned a rescue from the castle proper. But she would enjoy them while yet she could.

She wore the new apricot gown with delight, and that would no doubt go with her when she left. Its soft silken fabric and golden embellishments shimmered in the candlelight. She had not worn anything so fine since before . . . well, since before. She did not wish to dwell on tragic events this evening. Not in this gown so worthy of a celebration.

Her men had not forgotten her, and Timothy had not betrayed her. She finally believed it to be true. Her heart sang along with her lips as she practiced the lines of her new song. While his capturing her and bringing her to the castle had been foolish in the extreme, he indeed wished to help—though she knew not how he could. She had seen a new softness in his eyes as they talked that morning.

Might he have loved her after all?

She would leave any last vestiges of her anger in this tower tonight and enjoy the evening set before her. She would allow herself to flirt and savor the meal and see where that path might take her, though she would keep a careful eye out for her men. Timothy was her best ally within the castle, but she did not know if he would choose her or his lord if it came to that. He seemed to somehow wish to protect her while still pleasing the earl, and she saw no possibility in that.

While she had planned to charm Timothy this morning, once
she softened her demeanor and conceded to speak with him, her body had taken over with its own odd reactions. And since they seemed to please Timothy, she would allow her instincts to lead the way again tonight. Though she would remain cautious and alert, as always.

While she sang her new tune, more lines swirled in her head, and she paused to once more scribble them in her book.

Fall, rain, so sweet upon me now,

A hope of spring when flowers bloom,

A chance to live, to breathe anew,

A dream to wash away the gloom.

A dream. Precisely what she needed. A dream of freedom and a future. Hope, an odd entity for certain. So needed for survival, but so fleeting and tenuous. She must hope to get back to the children, lest she fall into despair, but she could never allow herself to hope of love with Timothy. No, false hope could only lead to disappointment, which could lead again back to despair. But surely she could afford one romantic evening in the firelight, if it might win him to her side.

A commotion beyond her door caught her attention, but she continued strumming her lute upon the bed, recalling Timothy had loved for her to play and sing to him in that other life. She switched from her new creation to a familiar song they both knew well. A song of a man and a maiden that might set the mood.

Matilda chuckled and offered a conspiratorial grin from her chair in the corner, where she worked at remaking another dress for Merry. It seemed Merry might have an unexpected ally in her maid.

The door swung open, and Timothy entered, resplendent in dark blue velvet. As he took in the picture of Merry upon the bed,
his eyes lit with wonder. He cleared his throat and straightened himself. “We are ready for you, my lady.”

She noted that he never said her name in the presence of the servants.

“Of course. Just a moment please.” She laid her lute across her pillow, stood, and fluffed out her gown, knowing full well what a lovely portrait she must present. She smiled at Timothy, and he seemed to melt beneath her gaze.

Truth be told, she melted a bit herself. She played with fire—but she could not turn back now.

They remained locked in a stare completely different than the adversarial one they had shared mere days ago. A silent and heated exchange.

Matilda bustled over. “Let me fix you up right and proper, then, m’lady.” She pulled one of the trailing veils of Merry’s wimple across her face and fastened it with a brooch of twisted metal near her ear.

As Matilda worked, Merry’s gaze did not leave Timothy’s.

She watched him shake himself out of his trance. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling and rocked back and forth upon his toes, with his arms secured behind his back—a boyish position that caused her to grin and reminded her they had both been children not so long ago. This, of course, flooded her with memories of their happy times together. She closed her eyes as the recollections washed through her like warm rain.

She lifted the kerchief she had embroidered with his family crest from the bed and offered it to him. “My token for you, Mister Grey.”

“Thank you, my lady. I will treasure it always.” He tucked it into his tunic near his heart. “I have prepared a special evening for us.”

“I cannot wait. Lead on, my handsome escort.” Merry chanced a step toward him.

He sucked in a quick breath and swiveled to offer her his arm. She looped her hand through his elbow. As he looked down at her, she did not bother to still her heart, for this was the nicest sort of racing she had ever experienced. A racing heart devoid of fear, though perhaps she ought to be more afraid than ever.

Timothy wound her round and round the steep, dark steps of the tower. The torches on the wall flickered against his square jaw and full lips. A part of her longed to reach out her hand and touch him, run her fingers through his thatch of silky hair. But instead she focused on putting one slippered foot in front of the other. From the tower he led her to a side door and ushered her through a narrow passage in the castle wall.

She must focus. Sharpen her marksman’s eye again and study every contingency, every angle, every strategic advantage this hallway might offer. She shushed her thrumming nerves and counted each guard along the path. Took note of their weapons and their demeanors.

Stealth, anonymity, and restraint,
she reminded herself. She would need to call upon those traits tonight more than ever before.

But when they walked through an arched opening into the castle great hall, all thoughts of strategy fled her mind as the familiar tableau unfolded before her. The long rows of tables, the herb-strewn rushes upon the floor, the streaming red-and-gold banners lining the walls, lit by torch after torch. She surveyed the giant hearth near the raised dais where she and Timothy would sit. If one would simply replace the red with green, this place might have been the great hall in her very own home.

She crushed her heel against the rushes and twisted them into the stone floor. The scent of rosemary and lavender, so familiar, wafted up to greet her.

Her throat grew tight, and she tightened her grip upon Timothy’s arm as well.

He looked down at her, concern etched across his handsome face.

“Until this moment,” she whispered, “I did not realize how much I missed my home.”

In the torchlight, tears shimmered in her beautiful doe eyes, and he knew this to be no act. Merry might connive and scheme with the best, but Timothy knew her true heart, and he saw it now displayed before him, wide open and wounded to the core. How horrible to lose one’s family in such a manner.

He turned and clasped her hands in his. Lowering his voice, for no one could know her true identity, he whispered to her, “Merry, please forgive me. In all that has transpired between us, I have forgotten to offer my condolences. I am so deeply sorry about the loss of your family and your home. I wish I had been by your side to protect you, to help you through it all. I have not yet forgiven myself for letting you slip away when I might have taken you under my care.”

She blinked back the moisture in her eyes and offered a small smile. “No, you did right. I was not ready to marry. I am glad that you and your family were spared the king’s wrath. And as you can see, I have managed well enough.”

He longed to drag her hands to his lips and burn his kiss upon them in a manner that might prove his sincerest regret. But he could never do so with so many watching. And as he turned to survey the great hall, he indeed saw every eye fastened upon them. So he patted her hand in a friendly gesture and hurried them to his table upon the dais.

Before he took his seat, he said in a resounding voice, “I welcome you all on behalf of the Earl of Wyndemere. Please make our guests feel at home this evening.” He patted Merry’s
hand again, wishing to please her, perhaps more than he ever had before.

But as they sat and servants began placing trenchers upon the table, he paused to question his plan. All of Merry’s favorite dishes spread before them, from the beef-and-vegetable pie, to the plum-glazed partridge, to the apple tarts for the sweet. Would they bring her joy, or would they wound her further? And he could not cancel the surprise he had arranged for later this evening. He must hope that once her initial shock faded, the familiarity of home might bring comfort.

She studied the table before her, even as he attempted to study her features through the gossamer of her ivory veil. But he could detect only the merest hint of her expression, which, if he must guess by her eyes, he would say to be wistful. Then she pressed a hand to her mouth and took several deep breaths.

Turning to him, at long last she spoke. “I cannot believe how thoughtful you have been. How could I have doubted you, Tiny Little Timmy Grey? I fear I owe you an apology.”

Timothy chuckled, relieved by the humor in her voice. “I fear it is I who owe you an apology. Had I not been in such a panic to see you safely here, I might have concocted a plan to transport you in a more . . . hospitable manner. I know well your temper, and should have expected nothing less under the circumstances.”

Her gentle giggle swept the air from his lungs. “I passed out upon your horse.”

He placed his hand to his head in consternation. “I know! You gave me quite a scare.”

“Nonetheless, I am sorry for how I treated you. I should have known you better than that. You have been so kind.” She gestured to the spread before them. “And all of my favorite foods—I cannot believe you remembered.”

“Ah, there is more.”

She quirked a perfectly arched brow at him. “What is it?”

“You must wait and see.” Though he was near to bursting with the news, he would not ruin the fun by telling her. He still could not believe the good fortune of the situation. Given her shift in mood, he now had no doubt she would enjoy his surprise entertainment that evening. “All I shall say is that, while you may doubt the existence of Providence, He has certainly smiled upon you this day.”

“My, my, so cryptic, Timothy.”

“Allow me to serve you.” Timothy changed the subject, heaping all of her favorites onto their shared trencher of hardened bread. He sliced the partridge with his own dagger, offering her the choicest cuts.

She lifted her veil only an inch with her left hand as she took a taste of the meat pie. “Mmm . . .” She sighed, closing her eyes to savor the bite. She took several more before whispering, “In the forest we eat only simple fare. Roasted meats and vegetable stews. I have not had anything so delicious in years.”

Timothy held back any response. This was the closest she had come to admitting she might be one of the ghosts. She was letting down her guard. But even as she did so, he realized he must not.

He must not enjoy this evening too much, nor allow himself to dream of the future. The best he dared hope for was to somehow keep Merry safe. No matter how he schemed or planned, he could devise no scenario in which he might make this delectable female his own. She was yet an outlaw wanted by the king. He must never let himself forget.

They could not have a future. Not based on dreams of what might have been and a racing pulse. Besides, she had given him no indication that she might return his feelings. He had invested too much in his position, earned too much favor with the earl to toss it to the wind.

Although, if he did not capture the ghosts, he might lose it all anyway.

He turned his attention back to the beautiful lady at his side. For just this one evening, he would enjoy her company all he could and then tuck that memory away in his heart to keep him warm on the many lonely nights ahead.