Lois Greiman (6 page)

“Yes,” Nicol said. “I know.”

“Sad.” Mrs. Barnes shook her head again. “The world’s a poorer place without her. But here you are.” She swung a door open.

It was a pretty chamber, small but homey, graced with a marble floor, and linen wall fabric. A brass tub stood off to the right. But it was the heavy-paned windows that intrigued Megan the most. Iron latches kept them closed. And iron latches would open them. It would not be a difficult climb to the ground.

“It adjoins the lady’s quarters through there. Shall I have Deirdre draw a bath before dinner?” Mistress Barnes asked.

“Yes,” Nicol said, and wrapped his arm around Megan’s shoulders. She started and glanced up only to find his gaze burning into hers. “I believe my bride would enjoy that.”

N
icol ushered the girl back down the hall to her bedroom. Once there, he hurried her inside and closed the door.

She turned and raised one brow at him. “Bride?”

Her voice was low, too soft to be heard above the water that already ran in the adjoining room.

He watched her. Now that the brown woolen gown was gone, and she was dressed decently, he could almost believe she was the woman he had met some months before. Could almost believe she was the one who had sparked his imagination—so long as she didn’t speak.

“We’ll be spending a great deal of time together,” he said. “I thought it best for the good widow to believe we are wed.”

She pulled her arm slowly from his grasp. “I disagree,” she said, and in that moment there was a spark of the lady in green. A shade of a woman with breeding.

He shrugged, intrigued but careful to appear nonchalant. “I wouldn’t think one more lie would make you so nervous, lass.”

“I won’t be your whore,” she said, and suddenly angels seemed to sing in the heavens. Whore. She’d said the word perfectly, and he laughed.

Her expression was cool, and he sobered quickly.

“Tell me, lass, what happened to the hideous accent?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Your speech,” he said. “It improves greatly when you’re angry.”

She stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Good then. ’And over me money, and I’ll be on me way.”

“What game are you playing, girl?”

She watched him carefully, like a hare might watch a fox. “I’m not playin’ at nothing, Govner. I’m just trying to earn a bit o’ cash. But I won’t be your whore. Not for any amount.”

“Why not?”

Curiosity crossed her face, but she didn’t speak.

“You’re not above a little theft,” he reminded her. “And you’re certainly not opposed to doing me bodily damage. Why draw the line at prostitution?”

Did she blush? He wasn’t certain, but the idea intrigued him.

“I told you, I got me morals.”

He reached out and touched her cheek with his knuckles again. “I’ve got
my
morals. Do you want help removing your gown?”

Her eyes widened, and an unspoken question rounded her lips.

“In preparation for your bath,” he explained, though he loved the look of surprise, the lush plumpness of her mouth.

“No. Thank you. I can manage.”

“Very well,” he said, and turned away. It was only a few short strides to the bed. Seating himself there, he pulled off one boot, then glanced up. She stood exactly where he had left her. “Did you change your mind?”

She raised her chin slightly. “You’ll ’ave to leave the room.”

“No,” he said. “But if you prove that you can say a proper aitch, I’ll allow you to disrobe in the bathing room.”

“Very well,” she said, speaking succinctly. “You, sir, are a horse’s ass.”

He laughed until she was out of the room and chuckled as he plumped the pillows behind him. There were times, entire moments, when he thought there might be hope.

Ralph arrived noiselessly with their trunks, which he stored against the wall before leaving just as soundlessly. If one couldn’t have a castle ghost, it was, at least, nice to have Ralph, he mused, and removing a few items from the trunk, distractedly laid them on a nearby commode. A moment later a soft rap sounded at the door.

“My lord.” The voice from the hall was as quiet as the knock. “Mum said to tell you dinner is ready.”

Dinner. Meals. He had seen the girl eat aboard ship. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Swinging his feet to the floor, Nicol crossed the room and opened the door. The young girl started as though she’d been slapped.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said.

“No. Oh no, my lord,” she said, and bobbed her head. She was a pretty child, he supposed. “’Tis my own fault. I—Mum says I’m as flighty as a song thrush.”

From the bathing room, he could hear water splashing. He turned his attention back to the girl. “What was your name again?”

“Deirdre, my lord.”

“Yes. Of course. Lady Elizabeth is not finished with her bath, Deirdre. Could you bring up trays for us, please.”

“Certainly, my lord.” She bobbed again, and he turned quickly away. Closing the door behind him, he strode across
the room to the bathing chamber, and there she was, just rising from the water, with her towel clasped to her chest and her hair pinned tight atop her head.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She didn’t gasp when she glanced up, but he caught the flare of her nostrils, the sharp widening of her eyes. Good God, was the bruising on her cheek ever going to dissipate?

“I’m gettin’ out,” she said. “As you can see plain as mornin’.”

“Get back in the tub.”

She tightened her grip on the towel. It was really pretty amazing how much of herself she could cover with that one piece of humble fabric. Not that he wanted to see more. The girl was as skinny as a willow switch. Had he imagined the lovely breasts of the lady in green? Or had she been another woman altogether?

“I bathed,” she countered. “Just like you said to.”

“I said to get rid of the stench.”

She raised her chin. “I don’t stink.”

He took a step forward. “Sit,” he ordered, but she remained as she was, almost meeting him eye to eye now that she stood in the tub.

He sighed, feeling old again. “I’ll give you a cantet if you sit down.”

Her brows dipped, but she finally sat back down, taking the towel with her. It dripped into the water, but she drew up her knees and managed to keep most everything covered. Amazing. He approached carefully, and she titled her head back, watching him draw near, but in a moment, he was out of her range of vision. He set his fingers to the first pin, and she turned quickly toward him. “What are you doin’?”

“Washing your hair.”

“It don’t need—” she began, but he allowed one of the pins to poke her skull before he pulled it free.

“Ow.”

“Speak correctly or don’t speak at all. Dinner will arrive in a moment, and I daren’t let you wait any longer lest you begin devouring the furniture.”

“Dinner? What are we ’aving?”

He let a pin snag her hair. She glared up at him. “Having,” she corrected.

“Don’t scowl.”

“Don’t pull me hair.”

He paused, threateningly holding a few strands that had snarled around a pin.

She corrected her speech promptly and he continued with his task. The soap Deirdre had left was scented with lavender, but the odor of her hair masked everything else. It stank like rancid lard and old smoke. He pulled out the final pin and spread her tresses over her shoulders.

“Dunk.”

“Not with you in ’ere, I won’t.”

“Rinse,” he commanded, and pushed her under.

She came up sputtering and blinking. “’Ey! What the bloody ’ell—”

He had no compunction against pushing her back down. Her arms started flailing, and the towel, set free from her clawed hands, floated upward to cling sloppily to her breasts.

He let go of her head. Water streamed down her face. “You bloody—”

“A lady does not curse,” he warned.

“You—” she began, but when he thumped his palm atop her head again, she fell silent.

“Better,” he said, and turned toward the tray of toiletries that stood beside the tub. “Which do you prefer? More lavender or—” He sniffed a nondescript ball of soap. “Roses.”

She was glaring at him, but he merely raised a brow, and she settled her hands back on the towel and pursed her lips.
With her face clean and her hair swept sharply back, each facial feature stood out in sharp relief, and it was at that moment that he realized she had the bone structure of a goddess—or a princess. That knowledge was not only surprising but strangely disconcerting.

“Choose,” he ordered.

She lifted her chin the slightest degree. It was small and sharp, with a shadow of a cleft in the center. “I am certain you can choose for me, my lord,” she said.

Her enunciation was perfect, her demeanor the same. He remembered not to gape. Instead, he rubbed the soap beneath the water before massaging it onto her scalp. Washing around her ears, he managed to work up a pitiful lather. Her head had dropped forward slightly by the time he admitted defeat.

“Rinse,” he ordered.

It took her a moment to do so, but finally she slipped under the water. He swished her hair around in the slapping waves, and she emerged again, dripping. Rubbing the soap vigorously, he scrubbed again, concentrating on the ends, which tended to escape. Lather finally formed, and he scooped some off her neck and shoulders, bearing it rigorously back to her hair.

He couldn’t help but notice that her eyes had fallen closed. The left lid was the color of a morning sunrise, the cheek still a putrid green. He scowled, then reached for a nearby bowl and moved toward the end of the tub. Her eyes snapped open and her heels scooted against her bottom, but the water was rife with bubbles now and little could be seen even if he tried, which he did not. God knew he had enough troubles already.

Turning both brass handles, he filled the bowl with warm water and retraced his steps. She tilted her head back on command and he rinsed her hair. One water-darkened curl slipped over her ivory shoulder and onto the towel. He scooped it
back with its mates and returned to the tap for more water. But a knock on the door interrupted him.

“Here. Finish this,” he ordered, and thrust the bowl toward her. She took it with a bobble of hesitation, allowing him to dry his hands and hurry from the room.

In the hallway once again, Deirdre bobbed a curtsy. The tray she carried was filled to overflowing. A steaming tureen was wedged between a pair of empty bowls and a round loaf of oat bread. A crusty pork pie nuzzled a crock of red currant jelly. “Mum said to bring this up first, then fetch mugs and the rest of the lot.”

Taking the tray, Nicol set it on the nearby armoire and proceeded to ladle out the soup. By the time he was finished, Deirdre had returned with glasses, a bottle of wine, and two bowls of tansy pudding.

He set the new tray aside, thanked her for her time, and sent her away.

“Dinner is served,” he called. There was no answer. “Dinner,” he began again, but in that instant panic flared in his gut. Pivoting toward the bathing chamber, he rushed into the room, grabbing the doorjamb as he did so.

The girl was there, clasping her gown to her chest and staring at him as if he’d gone mad.

“I need a minute to dress,” she said.

Relief sluiced through him like spring rain, but he loosened his grip on the jamb and made certain his tone was level.

“There’s no need to dress.”

Her brows rose, and he wondered vaguely if she were holding her breath.

“It’s nearly time for bed,” he said, and, turning toward the trunk, drew out a robe. It was the color of a midnight sky and made of sheerest satin. “Put this on,” he ordered, handing over the garment and retracing his steps into the bedchamber.
Emptying one tray, he set the steaming soup bowls on it, added two glasses of wine, and carried it to the bed.

“Hurry—” he began, but in that moment she entered the room. Wet and disheveled, her hair slipped over her shoulders in waves of burnished gold.

She cleared her throat, tugged the edges of the robe together at her neck, and glanced toward the tray. “The food’s ’ere then?”

He continued to stare at her.

She raised a brow. “Mayhap we should eat it.”

“Oh, yes.” He straightened abruptly. “We shall, if you can do so like a lady.”

“But of course,” she said, and inclined her head, her raspberry lips slightly pursed. “What are we dining on this eve, my lord?”

“You may call me Nicol.”

She gave him a regal look that barely raised one brow. Very good.

“I ’ardly…”

He stared. She cleared her throat and tried again.

“I hardly think that would be fitting, my lord.”

“I insist,” he said, and motioned for her to sit in the nearby chair. “What shall I call you?” A small, round table stood near the window, boasting nothing more than a basket of dried heather. He moved the flowers and carried the table toward the chair. But she had already snatched up the bread and was bearing it to her mouth. He stopped midstride, set the table aside, and stared at her.

It took a moment for her to raise her eyes, longer still to set the bread back on the plate.

“Have I been starving you?” he asked. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand. “I have not, and I shall not. In fact, I will feed you well and regularly so long as you keep up your end of the bargain.”

She straightened her back, eyed the bread longingly, and raised her gaze back to his. Then she took a seat in the upholstered chair and clasped her hands in her lap. Her fingernails, he noticed, were chipped and still remarkably dirty.

Placing the table in front of the chair, he retrieved a bowl of soup and set it beside the bread. She gazed at it with obvious greed.

“When I was searching for you I heard there was a Teleerian thief called Magical Megs.”

“Really.” She eyed the meal.

He nodded. “I shall call you Megs.”

Her gaze never left the steaming tray, but she shrugged. “You can call me Bouzer if you like, just give me some supper.”

He wanted to question her, longed to learn the truth. Which was strange, because there was no reason he should care about her past. His only real concern was the final product, after all. It made no difference if she was Magical Megs or the pope or no one at all.

“This is soup,” he said, finally turning his thoughts aside and indicating a bowl of the steaming chowder.

She tilted her head and stared at him wordlessly.

“It is not to be slurped like ale nor sopped up like hog swill.”

Her lips pursed in disapproval. Her hands were still clasped.

“And this”—he raised the appropriate utensil—“is a spoon.”

She looked truly peeved now, and for an instant, for just one second in time, he was stunned by the similarity between her and his Anna, regardless of the bruised eye and wet hair.

“Do you know how to use a spoon?”

The spark in her eyes suggested evil thoughts, but when she spoke, her words were soft and cadenced. “Indeed I do…my lord.”