Music for My Soul (8 page)

The hefty, bearded man boomed at her, “No, my girl, I can’t let ye go. Ye have the most wonderful voice I’ve heard in my two score of years. Our audiences will not be half what they are if ye desert us. Would ye see all of my people starve? I think not.”

He crossed his arms over his rotund belly and thrust his chin in the air as if that had settled the matter.

Madeleine turned to Elspeth, his wife. “Surely you understand that I am ready to return to my home?”

Elspeth nodded solemnly. “Sure ‘n I do, me sweet. Pay ye no mind to that barrel—chested oaf. He’ll dance ta what’er tune I decide. Now be gone, child!” and she swatted Madeleine’s rump.

Madeleine glanced over her shoulder as she left to witness Elspeth light into Farley, and him defend himself. “But, dearest, I was merely jesting with the girl. I would never . . .”

Farley’s voice faded as Madeleine hurried back to pack her meager belongings. Besides the clothes she wore, she had few personal items. She had purchased a new lute. It had done well by her and helped her to earn her way until she was ready to see her parents again.

But Gwenith’s sudden illness had put a stop to her plans. Not deliberately, of course, but Madeleine had remained all the same. Her friend looked so tired, and as Madeleine heard the hacking cough that Gwenith couldn’t seem to rid herself of, she decided that she owed it to Gwenith to stay until she was completely well. She would help her care for Evan, who would certainly keep anyone healthy running ragged, and she could now take part in the summer solstice.

All the members of their entourage looked forward to this Midsummer’s Eve festival. They would spend three days at Summerville, home of a Lord Denton. Maybe by then Gwenith would be in better health, and Madeleine could cross the channel with peace of mind.

But the solstice was less than a week away. Instead of improving as Madeleine had hoped, Gwenith continued wasting away. Her clothing hung on her, and she’d stopped performing entirely in the last few days. What was she going to do?

Royce, too, had upset her, more than she would admit to Gwenith. She hated to lose his friendship, but she could not tolerate any type of flirtation. There was still a half—hour or so before the first show of the afternoon. Since Gwenith now slept, Madeleine decided to take a turn in the fresh air. It always seemed to clear her head.

Madeleine pushed aside the flap of the tent and stepped out into the bright June sunshine. The colors and sounds of the faire assaulted her senses at once. She moved among the crowds, familiar now with these sights and sounds.
Maman
would be appalled by this type of life, but Madeleine rather enjoyed the freedom it gave her after so long being a prisoner within her own home.

Suddenly, she froze in her tracks. Hannah, a pert—nosed brunette with a squeaky voice who sewed most of the costumes for the troupe, moved in her direction. Escorting her was none other than Sir Ashby, one of the two noblemen who had aided her escape from Frothmore that night almost two months past.

Madeleine knew with certainty that the nobleman would recognize her. They’d spent too much time together in one another’s company for him not to know her upon first sight.

Madeleine groaned aloud. Where Sir Ashby was, she was positive his friend, the brooding Lord Montayne, would soon appear. She did not care to see him face-to-face, especially since he had been so angry at her when they parted.

She decided to skirt around the crowd and make her way back to the performance area. She would plead a sore throat and have Farley allow her to take York’s place in the play. York was a decent lute player, though not much of a singer. Still, he could perform before and between their scenes while she could be in plain sight of all, disguised by the heavy costume and mask York wore.

She moved stealthily through the throng, hoping she would avoid attention. Just as she thought she’d made her way unseen, she heard shouts headed her way.

“Stop, thief! Stop!”

The cutpurse ran by her swiftly, throwing a cursory glance over his shoulder. She despised people who preyed upon others’ misfortune, and she was ready to see this shabby scoundrel caught. Madeleine stepped out, ready to give chase after the fellow when she felt something slam into her, throwing her to the ground. Pain erupted in her chest and she couldn’t draw a breath, as the wind had been knocked from her.

She rolled into a ball, her arms instinctively wrapping around her in a protective cocoon. She had spent many a time lying on the floor after one of Henri’s swift punches to her stomach and she knew she must guard her ribs at all costs.
Oh, God, it hurt so much when one broke. Please, not again. Not again.

A hand, firm but reassuring, touched her shoulder. A voice came through the fog rolling through her brain. It wasn’t Henri! She half-laughed, half-gasped, as she opened her limbs and came to lie on her back. She even reached into her pocket and stroked Henri-the-pebble, validating that she was alive and unharmed.

Yet who had attacked her? She peered up into the blinding summer sun but could not see who stood above her. Then the shadow moved, covering her face from the harsh light.

“Why, if ‘tis not Lady Montayne,” said the dreaded familiar voice. “Tell me, my lady, where the hell is my favorite cloak?”

Chapter 7

“I could ask the same thing about my lute, my lord.”

Garrett peered down into the angry face of the woman who had haunted his dreams by night and left him absent-minded by day. Their encounter had been brief, but he had never met a more remarkable woman. Not even his petite Lynnette had brought such a sweet longing to his loins as did the bewitching creature before him.

Her honeyed hair, loosened from its intricate braid, curled around her shoulders. Tiny beads of sweat graced her upper lip. Without thinking, he wiped it away with his thumb. She flinched slightly, her dark, amethyst eyes glowering up at him.

Garrett smiled in spite of himself, offering her a hand to help her to her feet. He had forgotten how very tall she was as she stared at him, her cheeks flushed with anger.

“Perhaps we could arrange a trade?” he suggested.

She eyed him suspiciously. “I’m not sure if I trust you, my lord,” she countered.

“Trust
me
?” he sputtered. “This from the woman who traipsed about the countryside claiming to be
my wife
?” Garrett paused to let his words sink in. He wanted this woman to know exactly who he was and that her pretense had been discovered.

She shrugged nonchalantly, an almost Gallic air about her. She didn’t sound French, but there was an unmistakable manner to her movement. Garrett had spent enough time in France to recognize the gesture.

“I chose a bloody awful name to scare away anyone who accosted me on the road. How was I to know I’d run into
you
?” She snorted in an unladylike fashion. “I’ve heard tales of the wicked Lord Montayne, how he frightens old and young alike and gobbles up babes for his dinner. Why, the very mention of his name causes grown men to plead for their lives and their loved ones. Oh, no, my lord, I was an
honest
liar.
You
were the one who resorted to trickery and hid your true identity from me.”

Her accusation so startled Garrett his jaw flew open. She lifted her chin high and turned on her heel before he could make a retort. He grabbed her elbow and spun her around to face him. “Not so fast, my lady.”

He studied her a second. Finally faced with her visage squarely in front of him, Garrett was at a loss of what to do. His emotions swirled out of control as he studied her narrowed eyes.

“’Tis a curiosity,” he finally sputtered.

She looked puzzled. “Curiosity?” she echoed.

He nodded, his words spilling forth rapidly. “I know not who you are, nor where you come from. I’ve dreamed of you since that night, only to awaken to an emptiness.” His voice became low and tinged with sadness. “I don’t even know your name.”

“What’s this?” an angry voice exclaimed.

A man of about three and twenty strode toward them. He looked as Garrett imagined God’s angels to look—tall, fair—haired, blue—eyed. But this angel was muscular and had fisted hands. He appeared ready to deliver God’s wrath upon Garrett.

Garrett released the elbow of the still nameless woman and turned to face the man, who marched straight past him and put an arm about the mystery lady.

“Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you?” The stranger turned and glared at Garrett.

The woman finally spoke. “No, Royce, things are fine,” she said evenly. “Lord Montayne helped me when I was in a precarious position a few months ago. I am grateful for the aid he rendered to me.” She flashed Garrett a look that he read to mean ‘stay quiet,’ and he did.

“You’ve got those dark eyes, my sweet. I fear you are angry with this lord, even if he did help you.”

Those amethyst eyes now focused their fury on the one she had called Royce. “I’ll thank you kindly not to interpret my glances,” she said curtly.

Garrett noticed the man seemed hurt by her words, but kept his arm steady about her nonetheless.

She turned back to Garrett. “My thanks to you once more, my lord. ‘Tis a pleasure to see you again.” She smiled brilliantly at him. “And give my best to Sir Ashby.” With that, the couple turned, melting into the noisy crowd.

Garrett swore softly under his breath. He still had no clue who this mystery woman was. Why had he let her go so easily?

Madeleine waited until they were well out of Garrett’s earshot then turned to Royce. “Kindly remove your arm from me, Royce,” she said icily.

He drew it away quickly. “I only meant to protect you, Madeleine. That gentleman looked quite put out with you and had hold of you. ‘Twas only for fear of your safety that I intervened.”

She studied his contrite expression and softened. “I thank you then, Royce, but I could have done without your calling me ‘my sweet.’”

“’Tis how I feel, Madeleine. I tried telling you earlier, but we were interrupted by Osbert.” His eyes reflected the hope she heard in his voice.

She placed her hand on his shoulder. “I—”

“There you are, Madeleine. About time you arrived. I sent Royce looking for you,” Farley interrupted them. “Didn’t want to start the performance late.”

She dropped her hand. “Farley, may I have a quick word with you?” He nodded and she continued. “I would ask that York take my place today. I’m far too upset about Gwenith now to perform. I could easily play York’s role.”

Although this had been her original idea to avoid Lord Montayne and Sir Ashby, she still thought it a good one. The mighty lord had no idea she was a part of this troupe.

For all he could guess, she’d simply been enjoying the pleasures to be found at a country faire. She preferred to keep him in the dark, both to her identity and her traveling companions. When Gwenith became stronger, she still intended to leave and return home to France. The nobleman need never know who she was, since by now he surely had finished his business with Henri.

Farley shook his head. “Impossible, my dear. That fool York just broke his leg minutes ago.”

Madeleine gasped. “What happened?”

“’Twas a woman.” Farley chuckled. “‘Tis always a woman with York.”

Madeleine frowned. “A woman broke his leg?”

“No, no, child. He broke it showing off for a woman.” Farley nodded sagely. “York thought to impress her and got up on Eamon’s stilts. He lost control of the blasted things and fell. Elspeth is fussing over him now, along with the pretty young thing who caused York to behave like an idiot. Between the two, I’m sure ‘twill be set in no time. But,” he added, “York will be in no mood to play for an audience today.”

Guess she’d have to perform. Mayhap Garrett wouldn’t even attend their show. He probably thought lowly mummers beneath him. She hurried to gather her lute from the tent.

Gwenith awakened when she entered. “Maddie? You look a mess. Whatever happened to your hair?” she asked weakly.

Madeleine reached back to touch her braid. “Oh, ‘twas nothing, Gwenith. I tried to help catch a cutpurse. No success, though, just a bit of rolling about on the ground, with the cutpurse long gone.”

“I can see that. You must change your tunic. ‘Tis muddy on the back.”

Madeleine sighed in exasperation. She slipped quickly out of her clothes and into new ones, but that didn’t leave her time to re—braid her abundant hair. She would have to wear it down. She pulled the sections apart until her hair was free and quickly brushed till it was smooth. With a kiss to Gwenith, she hurried from the tent.

Passing Hannah, she noticed the glow of the younger girl’s face. Usually, Hannah was churlish and fussy, never pleased with how the costumes looked on the mummers. Today, though, she radiated good will.

“Good luck to you, Madeleine,” Hannah called sweetly.

Madeleine laughed softly to herself. If this was what a bit of time with Sir Ashby did for the girl, she wished Farley could hire him for an entire day. Thinking about Hannah’s usual disposition, she thought a week might suffice nicely.

She approached the side of their makeshift stage. Already the crowd was larger as any she’d seen so far. She scanned the mass nonchalantly, searching for sign of Lord Montayne. When she saw none, she exhaled, not even realizing she’d held her breath. Part of her was relieved at his absence, yet part of her longed to see him again.

He’d taken her by surprise earlier. He’d been in her thoughts off and on for the several weeks since her escape. His image appeared before her at the most unexpected moments, so many times, in fact, that it had begun to worry her. Now he’d emerged when she’d least thought to see him.

And what of his words to her?

She recognized the anger that tinged his tone when he first came upon her. He not only missed his favorite cloak, but he was furious about her lies, pretending to be Lady Montayne.

What struck her most, though, was his bold admission.
He dreamed of her, as she did him
. Madeleine shivered, though not from fear.

Nervously, she scanned the crowd again, hoping she’d missed him and that he really had come to the performance. She felt a tug on her arm. Looking down, she spotted Evan.