Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (16 page)

She giggled again in spite of herself.

John could not fathom the audacity of Timothy Grey. How dare the man bring this chit to the great hall and expect none of them to question her identity? The man was not an earl, not a baron, nor even a sheriff. Merely an assistant, and a bumbling one at that. Such arrogance must come of being raised in a manor home, ninth child or not.

But Timothy had always been a pompous fool, even when they were young. Strutting through the forest as if he owned the place. Perhaps he thought he did, but John had always been of the opinion that neither nobles nor kings could possess the earth, only God himself—and the people He had created to enjoy it. All of His people, not merely those of the highborn class.

Most of these castle dwellers would never dare to question the man. These worker bees who functioned on some primal instinct to serve and obey their “betters,” accepting the divine right of kings and nobles without a moment’s pause.

But he understood—matters were not so simple.

And this woman, might she hold a key to finding the ghosts?
To his knowledge, Timothy had not gone back into the woods in many days. John must find a way to speak to her. If he captured the ghosts himself, perhaps he could at long last win some favor with the earl. Favor he had long deserved but never received, unlike Timothy Grey, who had danced into this castle on a whim and found himself in charge not two years later.

He noted that the woman kept glancing back toward the lute. Timothy thought himself so wise, but he seemed not to notice her obsession with the instrument. Nor its odd shape, though John had also failed to notice it while the minstrel played. He must keep a close watch on this mysterious woman, no matter who she might be.

One thing he knew for certain, this woman was a chink in the armor of Timothy Grey. Whoever she was, he held some special affection for her. John had seen the look in his eye as they chatted over supper. He recognized the mannerisms of a man in love. The way Timothy leaned in close, found reasons to brush her arm. And now, the look of rapture upon his face as he danced. The man should not be so foolish as to expose his weakness.

Yes, John must find a way to speak to her. Perhaps he would spirit her away and demand she take him to the ghosts. He hoped she would put up a fight and give him a reason to rough her up a bit, for he could think of no more intoxicating way to harm Timothy Grey.

“Oh no,” Merry whispered to Timothy as a romping country dance concluded.

Greeves, the stable master, headed straight toward them with determination displayed upon his rather plain face. What might he want with her?

“It will be all right.” Timothy reassured her with a squeeze to her arm.

Greeves halted mere inches from them. “May I dance with the lady?”

She scanned her mind for a reason to deny him, looking up to Timothy in desperation.

Though Timothy seemed to register her plea, he shrugged his shoulders as if to signal he could think of no excuse. He frowned and then collected himself. “Of course, my man. Please take good care of our guest.”

“Right,” Greeves mumbled, grasping Merry’s arm and dragging her back to the center of the floor.

The fiddlers began a more sedate song, signaling a courtly dance. Merry wondered if this uncouth man would even know the steps, but it seemed he had lived in the castle for some time, as he fell into the patterns with ease, leading her with slight pressure upon her left hand.

Several lines of music passed before the man spoke. “I like horses,” he declared in a gruff tone.

How was she to respond to that? “Right, then. You are the stable master, I hear.”

“Are you fond of horses?” He led her in a circling pattern.

Thankful that he could not see the confusion upon her face, Merry replied. “I am . . . I recall them to be a sturdy and faithful species, although I have not owned one for some time.” Was the man testing her to ascertain her supposed status as a noblewoman?

“Nothing better than galloping through a field with the wind in your hair.” He seemed to be warming to her, his speech sounded less stilted now. Perhaps the man was merely awkward in social situations.

And Merry did recall some lovely horseback jaunts from
her childhood, although she had been more one to traverse the forest by foot.

She had grown too suspicious over the years, could no longer even manage a polite exchange while dancing. Giving one last glance to her lute, Merry let down her guard and engaged fully in the conversation.

Timothy watched from a rear table near several of the guards. As Merry danced and conversed with Greeves, his blood began to boil. Whatever could the odd man be thinking, to ask a noblewoman to dance? Perhaps a soldier or a squire—maybe even a scribe or a steward—might ask a lady to dance, but not a common stable master. However, once he had inquired, Timothy could think of no good reason to cause a scene and turn him down.

He pounded the table before him with his fist.

“Get her back, if you’re so riled up,” said Hadley from his right.

“I cannot cut between them before even one dance has concluded. ’Tis not mannerly.”

Hadley shrugged. “I have no manners of which to speak. I’ll do it.” Given his tall stature and broad shoulders, the man appeared intimidating even without his chain mail and armor.

“Yes, that might just be the thing. Thank you, my friend.” Timothy thumped the man on the back.

“At your service,” Hadley tapped his head in a deferential manner, although he wore his dark hair cropped too close to pull a forelock as the peasant folk did.

He strode across the floor and towered over poor Greeves. The man backed away in an instant, and Hadley took over the dance.

Merry glanced at the soldier with admiration and thanks in
those eyes Timothy could easily lose himself within. He wished he had been the one to take her away from Greeves. But he had pushed matters to the limits merely by bringing her to the great hall this evening. He did not wish to arouse suspicions further with unusual behavior.

She laughed at something Hadley said and swatted him on his huge arm.

Timothy’s blood continued its slow boil on a different account now. Why had he not paused to consider how handsome a young woman might find Hadley? His closely cropped dark hair and whiskers surrounded a face that even Timothy could not miss as attractive.

Hadley flashed a flirtatious grin Merry’s way.

But Timothy held himself still and endured until the dance finished. He pressed his fingers to the place on his chest where he had tucked her token of a kerchief. A token she had sewn for him and no one else. Hadley escorted Merry back to Timothy and handed her over with a bow.

Timothy sniffed back any resentment. Hadley had never been other than a faithful companion to him. He should not let jealousy sneak upon him so. The man had only been trying to help.

“Come, my lady,” said Timothy. “That is enough merriment for one evening.”

“I have not danced so much in years, and my feet could use a rest.”

Timothy turned Merry toward the exit, but she pulled away.

“Wait, my lute.”

“Of course.” He watched as she hastened to the table and retrieved it, then returned to him at a more sedate pace. His mission had been fulfilled. At least for one evening, he had brought a bit of joy into her life.

“Ready.” She hugged the gift to her chest.

Timothy offered his elbow and, as she tucked her tiny hand into it, could barely believe the wave of protectiveness that overwhelmed him. He must find a way to keep her safe. But how, if she would not tell him the truth?

He led her back through the dark passageway toward the tower. “Has the time come, Merry? Can we talk now? Discuss the details of the past two years?”

She remained silent for a moment. Then said, “Can we do so in the morning? I am exhausted after this lovely evening.”

Though he wished she would not put him off, neither could he force her to speak. “Of course.”

As they exited the passageway and entered the base of the tower, Timothy noticed that they were briefly away from the watchful eyes of the earl’s many guards. And at last he allowed himself to give way to his desires.

He dragged Merry’s slight frame into his arms, wishing he could shield her from the world forever. Only the lute between them kept him from crushing her to himself. Resting his chin upon her head, he sucked in the intoxicating lavender scent of her hair. He closed his eyes, savoring this brief moment.

Believing for just a moment that his topside-turvy world might be made right with Merry back where she belonged.

Setting her a few inches away from him before he gave in to even greater desires he might regret, Timothy pulled her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against the delicate flesh, as he had wished to all evening.

Merry cleared her throat. “I think . . .” She wavered upon her feet, then straightened herself and tugged her hand free of his.

He watched as she seemed to gather her resolve and tense her body to match.

She tried again. “I think you should escort me to my room now. Matilda shall be wondering at my long absence.”

Of course she was correct. Neither of them could afford to lose their hearts, nor to give in to their passions at such a volatile time.

He led her back up the twisting stairway. So much had transpired. So much had changed in the less than two hours since he had ushered her down. She remained silent at his side until they reached the top and White unlocked the door.

“Thank you for this evening, Timothy. I shall remember it for the rest of my life.”

And with that, she slipped into the room.

If only he could hold her in his arms, keep her for himself forever, but he feared their time together would end all too soon.

The next morning Timothy awoke with a start. He bolted upright in bed in his small room at the far end of the castle from Merry. Though he could not recall the particulars of his dream, he remembered grieving the loss of her. Regret and sadness clung to him as his dream world faded into the ether.

The dream might be a warning. Merry, together with the better portion of his heart, could have escaped during the night. He jumped up and jammed his limbs into his tunic and leggings as he scanned the occurrences of the previous evening for anything out of the ordinary. The tumblers, perhaps. He had thought them a godsend, but upon further consideration, a group rumored to be ghosts might possess just such lightness upon their feet.

He dashed out of his room and through the castle, needing to see Merry at once. Needing to soothe his fears and that ache in the center of his chest that felt as if someone had thrust a dagger into him and continued to twist. Nothing but the sight of Merry would fill that hole and staunch the sense that his life drained right out of him.

Reaching the tower, he pounded up the stairs, causing a stir
at the top. Two guards, the night watch, blocked his path with swords drawn.

“It is I, Timothy Grey,” he panted. “I must see the prisoner at once. I fear she has escaped in the night.”

“Not on our watch,” said one of the burly fellows, unlocking the door.

Timothy pushed him aside and tumbled through.

Merry gasped, sitting up in her bed and pulling the covers over her shift.

Timothy could hardly believe his eyes. She remained, safe and sound. Sleeping like a babe with her tousled hair and flushed cheeks. The knife withdrew from his chest, and his breathing slowed.

“What do ye think ye’re about?” Matilda had hoisted her large frame from the pallet on the floor with surprising haste. “Get out of here, I say. Ye don’t come barging into a lady’s room while yet she sleeps.” She slapped at him, chasing him back toward the door.

Timothy shielded himself with both hands. “Stop that, Matilda. I had a dream and feared some harm had come to the lady.”

Matilda rubbed her sleepy eyes and seemed to come more into her right mind. “Don’t ye worry, Mister Grey. I’m keeping a close watch on your lady guest, just as ye instructed.”

Merry swiveled about in her bed and placed her feet on the floor. “Everything is fine, Matilda. I promised Timothy I would speak with him in the morning. Perhaps ’tis best if we get this done with.”

Still, he could not accept that her sleepy form sat here before his eyes. Might this be a dream as well?

“Not in your shift, ye won’t be. Not while I draw breath.” Matilda swatted him toward the door again. “Out with ye until she’s dressed right and proper.”

He chuckled as he submitted to the matron’s stern will. No, no dream. Matilda’s slaps were all too real. Once he was outside the door, Matilda slammed it shut.

The larger of the two guards raised a brow. “All is well, Mister Grey?”

“Yes.” Timothy bade himself to believe it. “Methinks all is well. I shall speak with our . . . guest in a moment.”

He had worried for naught. His fear of losing her had overcome his reason. Still, he could not shake this sense that something was amiss. He scanned the details of last night again. Greeves’s odd behavior? Perhaps that was the source of his concern. Might he wish her ill? Next he recalled the lute crammed between them as he embraced Merry. She had seemed rather too attached to her gift from the tumblers. Again he wondered at the timing of their arrival.

Once he had spoken with Merry, he would find an opportunity to examine the instrument, but he dare not risk her trust by asking for it now.

The door opened, and Matilda strutted out. “All right, then. Ye may have a bit of time with her ladyship. But I will be checking on ye, I will.” She pointed to her eye and then to him in a threatening manner that he found amusing on the small, round woman with her mop of curling hair.

Timothy entered Merry’s chamber for the second time that morning. She sat upon a chair and tidied her hair with her fingers. He pulled the other chair across from her and sat as well, taking in the room as he did so. On the far side, the new lute leaned against the wall in a nonthreatening manner, partially hidden behind the one he had lent her. Though a bit longer than the other, it otherwise appeared normal. He presumed such instruments must vary in size.

Merry sighed, and he turned his attention back to the beautiful young lady.

“I am sorry you were troubled this morning,” she said. “I will keep you waiting no longer for the truth. That is, if you are certain you wish to know it. For I promise, you shall not thank me for telling you.”

“You must, Merry. It is the only chance for . . . you.” He wished to say
for us,
but he did not want to give her false hope. Nor give himself false hope, for that matter. “Tell me what has transpired these past two years.”

She wrung her hands in her lap. “On the night that King John’s men murdered my father, we knew they were on their way. All of the adults from the castle and village were armed. But they sent the children, including me, away to a cave in the forest under Percivale’s care. My father wanted, more than anything else, that his heirs would survive the imminent slaughter.”

Merry paused and closed her eyes, biting her lip and taking several deep breaths.

No longer able to restrain himself, he scooted his chair closer to hers and took her hands in his own.

She gripped them hard and seemed to draw strength from them. Opening her eyes, she looked directly into his. “But when we heard the screams and smelled the smoke, Percivale could stand it no longer. He bade the village boys to watch over me and took off toward the fray. I never saw him again.”

She fought back her tears and continued. “In the morning we all ventured to a hillside, where we witnessed the ruins. Days passed. We survived on spring water and berries, and finally we realized there was no one alive to rescue us. And so . . . I did what I had to. What anyone in my position would do.”

Her doe eyes pleaded with him to put the pieces together, to not make her speak the awful truth, and he could indeed pick up
the story from there. He saw it displayed clearly in her expression. Merry knew the forest. She had been trained in fighting. She would never allow those children to die. They must have found the ghosts in the woods and somehow banded together with them.

His mind continued sorting through facts he must have known on some level all along. No one was as stealthy, as sneaky, as cunning as Lady Merry Ellison. She might well be an integral part of their band. But whatever else might be true, he no longer wished to know.

He would have sworn the tower walls crumbled before his eyes. But it was not the sturdy castle tower but rather his own world that fell apart.

He had made a tragic error. She had been better off in the forest.

Many moments passed as Merry waited. She watched while Timothy’s mind sorted through what must have happened. He had not wished to believe her one of the ghosts, but he of all people must have known she possessed the skills, having taught many of them to her himself.

He had played at war games in the woods with his brothers throughout his childhood, but as the youngest, his playmates had outgrown him too soon for his liking. And so, at their aunts’ adjoining properties during the summers, he had drawn her and Percivale into the fun, teaching them strategy and battle maneuvers. Add to that her tumbling prowess, a prowess he had long envied, and what other conclusion could he arrive at?

He stood and pulled at his hair, causing the pale blond strands to stick out at odd angles. “Do not say it, Merry. Do not say another word. I cannot charge you for what I do not know. How? Why?”

But she knew he desired no answer.

He roared his frustration at the ceiling. “Where is justice? Where is mercy in this land? There must be a way. I will not rest until I see you safe.”

Of all Merry had endured in the last two years, nothing since the death of her family had pained her quite as much as the tortured expression upon Timothy’s face. She longed to tell him that her rescue was imminent, but she could not make him responsible for such information. Despite the feelings writhing inside her, she must keep her wits. Make use of restraint, her ally, as she always reminded her men.

Timothy appeared to be having difficulty drawing breath again. “I need . . . a plan. I need . . . to talk to someone.”

And Merry
needed
him far from her, lest he disturb whatever plot Robert had concocted. “Your father, Timothy. Your father has always been a fair and just man. A wise man who considers both the law and mercy. Go to him. He will know what to do.”

“Yes, my father. I will go to my father.” Timothy seemed to clutch to the idea like a rope thrown to a drowning man. “You are correct. Only my father has managed to live his convictions without displeasing the king. He never wanted me to come here and work. I should have listened. But I was so . . .”

He stopped pacing and knelt before Merry, taking her hands in his. “When I believed you were dead, I nearly died myself. I had to find something new to live for. And so I chose ambition. A stupid, shallow goal. A goal that put me at odds with the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest. A goal I will ever regret.”

“But why a king’s man?” She whispered the words.

For a moment he bowed his head. Merry’s eyes filled with tears as she witnessed his inner torment. “I thought . . . I convinced myself your father was to blame. Told myself that one cannot go about plotting murder and not expect retaliation. I
never wanted to find myself on the wrong side of King John again. I never wanted him to take anything else away from me. But I swear to you I would not have worked for the man himself. I do not trust him nor believe him to be in the right. The Earl of Wyndemere is a just ruler, yet never at odds with the king. Can you understand? Can you ever forgive me?”

In light of that reasoning, she supposed she could. The trauma of thinking he lost her had clouded his judgment. And he always had been a strong proponent of the divine right of kings. But she could not endorse his decision, so she merely nodded.

He still held her hands in his, and he pressed a kiss upon them as he had last night. Another searing kiss that left her dizzy and confused.

Raising his head, he said, “I fear I might never have another chance to tell you. But I love you, Merry. I have always loved you, and I shall never stop loving you.”

Merry said nothing. She should not allow herself to be ruled by fickle emotions. By tingles and kisses.

He searched her eyes, and despite her resolve, she could not pull her gaze from his. Silence stretched between them, but he must have spied something within her that gave him courage. Timothy leaned forward. His warm breath tickled her face.

Her lips cried out to meet his, but she fought the urge, wavering toward him and back again. Just when she thought she might lose the war and relent, the door burst open.

“Ah ha! So that’s how it is.”

Matilda thrust her considerable girth into the room, and Timothy’s head drooped forward, leaving Merry’s lips alone and cold.

“I suspected as much, I did. The earl’s assistant or not, you’ll not be laying your grubby hands upon that maiden unless you marry her properly, Timothy Grey. Now out with ye!”

Timothy rose to his feet, even as that traitorous portion of Merry longed to reach out and pull him to her breast. He shuffled toward the door with a defeated stance. “I will get help. I will find an answer, and I will return by suppertime.”

Still without words, Merry nodded again.

Matilda harped at him as he walked out the door.

Hopefully by supper the issue would be settled, and Timothy would be free of the problem of Merry Ellison for good. She blinked back tears at the thought.

Later that evening, in his office strewn with papers and ink, Timothy scanned the missive for the tenth time. He and his father had spent most of the afternoon crafting each and every word. Now that he was back to the castle, he no longer felt certain they had gotten it right.