Ransom My Heart (26 page)

Hugo frowned again. So she was still sulking about Hugh Fitzwilliam, was she? Christ's toes, but he was beginning to hate that fictional knight. It seemed incredible, but he honestly believed the girl would have preferred to be wed to that lowly knight than to himself. What was he going to have to do in order to win over the ungrateful chit? True, he had her body, but her heart seemed to belong to someone Hugo himself had invented!

“Have your bonfire, then,” he said, ungraciously and through gritted teeth. “Throw my own chair on it, if that will make you happy. I care not.”

Turning, he strode away, and Finnula, to his chagrin, made no effort to stop him. He knew he was being foolish, sulking as if he
were no older than Jamie, but it irked him that his wife, who was so demonstrative in bed—and in the bushes, for God's sake—should be so cold at all other times. It had not been so when he'd been her hostage. Why was it so now that he was her husband?

Hugo went inside to seek out some breakfast, and it was as he was eating it—not quite alone, for Gros Louis, seeming to have given up on his dislike of him, had joined him with a bone at his feet at the head of the long table in the Great Hall—that Peter approached, sweaty-faced and dirty from his exertions in the late earl's solar, to announce that John de Brissac was waiting outside the manor house gates for a word with His Lordship. Swallowing a last mouthful of pork and egg, Hugo rose to follow his squire, who seized the opportunity to complain of his treatment of late.

“I didn't leave London so I could haul furniture,” Peter whined. “I'm not used to dirtying my hands performing common char labor. When am I to begin my training as a knight, my lord? I don't even have sword of my own—”

Hugo, who was in a foul temper, snapped, “You have a decent bed to sleep in, don't you?”

“Aye, my lord…”

“You didn't have three meals a day, and fine clothes, and a horse of your own, and a decent bed to sleep in when you were in London, did you?”

“Nay, my lord…”

“Those things are more important than swords.”

“But I thought I was to be trained to fight.” Peter was huffing from his attempt to keep up with Hugo's long strides across the stable yard. “I thought I was to learn swordplay in order to battle the enemy—”

Hugo snorted. “The enemy doesn't engage in swordplay,
my boy. The enemy's weapons are considerably more sophisticated.”

“My lord?”

“The enemy uses winsome looks and swishing hips…”

“My lord?” Peter looked understandably confused. “Are you saying…Are you referring to
women
, my lord?”

Hugo had reached the gates by then, and he only shrugged. “Get thee gone, boy. I'll train you another day. For now, do as your mistress bids.”

Peter, muttering darkly beneath his breath, hitched his shoulders and turned back toward the house.

John de Brissac, high upon his mount, looked surprised to see Hugo standing in the yard. “Ho, there, my lord!” he cried, dismounting with surprising quickness for so heavy a man. “Didn't mean to disturb you. Asked the boy to see whether or not you and your lady were receiving callers.”

Hugo leaned against one of the useless stone turrets that guarded his home, enjoying the feel of the sun upon his face. “I suppose we are,” he said. “At least I am. The Lady Finnula is otherwise engaged.”

“Ah.” The sheriff smiled knowingly. “Too modest to show her face after last night, eh? 'Tis the way with pretty brides.”

Hugo snorted. “Not exactly, Sheriff. Modesty is not a virtue my wife seems to hold in much esteem. She is currently directing a team of laborers in removing my father's furniture from his solar, with the intention of burning it in a massive bonfire in the south meadow tonight.”

“Is she?” There was no mistaking the glee in the sheriff's voice. “Good girl!” Then, with a cautious glance at Hugo, who was frowning, de Brissac amended, “What I meant was—”

“No, no, John.” Hugo waved aside the older man's apology. “I
can see by your enthusiasm that you think the idea a good one. I have been too long gone from here to know what is what. So you think it a wise plan?”

“'Tis a sure way to show the Matthew Fairchilds of this community that you mean to be a different sort of leader than your father,” the sheriff thoughtfully observed.

“And all the wine and roasted pig I served last night was not proof enough?” Hugo asked, with a flash of humor.

“Ah, well, that was well and good, but this bonfire…” The sheriff chuckled, shaking his head. “'Twill be like bidding good riddance to bad rubbish, if you'll excuse the slight to your family, my lord.”

Hugo, rubbing his jaw, frowned. “I think I see what you mean. 'Twill allow my vassals to feel as I did yesterday, when I closed the gates upon the Laroches.”

“Precisely!” Noticing that Hugo was still frowning, John de Brissac slapped the reins he held against his side and whistled, low and long. When Hugo lifted an inquiring brow, the sheriff said, with a lopsided grin, “Well, my lord, to look at you, I'd hardly think you were a man newly wedded. I'm hoping that frown is from a headache brought on by too much wine last night, and not by your bright young bride…”

Hugo's frown lifted only slightly. “How did you guess?”

It was Sheriff de Brissac's turn to snort. “You forget, my lord. I was the one who was bid to stop the Fair Finn from poaching on your lands. That was like telling a man to stop the wind from blowing. Oh, yes, your Lady Finnula and I had many a long chat…”

“She hasn't chatted with me very much since she found out who I really am,” Hugo growled. He slumped against the sun-warmed bricks, crossing his legs at the ankles. “Tell me, Sher
iff. What is a man, returning to his home after a long absence, to do when he finds that he has a ten-year-old son by a woman he barely remembers, subjects who despise him, and a wife who will only admit to being ‘fond enough' of him, despite the fact that he's made an honest woman of her?”

“Ah,” John de Brissac grunted. “You're asking the opinion of a landless, childless bachelor, my lord?”

Hugo stared at the dirt. “I have no one else to ask.”

The sheriff gave his horse a pat. “Be kind.”

“Sheriff?” Hugo's eyes glowed almost gold.

“Be kind,” John de Brissac repeated. “Be kind to the boy. Kind to your subjects. And kind to your wife. They'll come round. All of them. You forget.” He gave Hugo a stealthy wink. “I know them all quite well. And there isn't a one who won't come to appreciate you, in time.”

As he spoke, the sheriff lifted his head, distracted by some small noise coming from above them. Glancing up at the merlons that surrounded the rim of the turret against which Hugo leaned, John's face suddenly changed, and he barked out a warning even as he lunged forward. Throwing all his enormous weight against Hugo, John de Brissac shoved the younger man to the ground. Hugo, taken off guard, tumbled to the earth, the sheriff's larger body landing heavily across his…

…but not as heavily as the foot-long slab of solid rock that embedded itself into the dirt exactly where Hugo had been standing would have.

John de Brissac's mare reared in fright as the stone impacted, spraying dirt and grass, and both men shielded their heads as bits of loosened gravel rained upon them from above. When the brief shower ended, Hugo lifted his head, and, staring wide-eyed at the projectile, which, had the sheriff not acted so quickly,
would undoubtedly have killed him, ground out, “What in the hell…?”

John de Brissac was already struggling to his feet, reaching for his fractious horse's reins. “It's one of the merlons, my lord. Someone pushed it—”

“Pushed it, my ass,” Hugo growled, rolling painfully to his feet. His body, where de Brissac had tackled it, throbbed. “Those towers always were a menace. As long as Finnula's redecorating, I should have them pulled down—”

“No, my lord,” the sheriff puffed. He'd captured his mare, and was whispering soothing words into her flattened ears. “I think not. I heard footsteps from above, directly before it fell. Someone pushed that stone, I'd stake my life on it.” His eyes bright, de Brissac shook his head. “My lord, someone is trying to kill you.”

D
on't be ridiculous.”

Hugo, straightening, held on to the side of the turret for support. He wondered if, like Finnula that day that now seemed so long ago, he'd bruised a rib. The sheriff's girth was considerable, and he'd thrown all of it at Hugo in his anxiety to save him from being crushed another way.

“Who would want to kill
me
?” Hugo laughed, and then regretted it, when his side throbbed. “'Tis Laroche everyone despises.”

“Apparently not everyone.” The sheriff had managed to calm his mount at last, and now he stood with one hand shaded over his eyes, squinting up at the tower. “That merlon didn't fall. Someone loosened it, and someone pushed it. Come. The culprit
is surely flown by now, but he might have left some sign. With these heavy rains, perhaps we shall find a footprint or two.”

Now that the initial shock was over, Hugo found himself shaking his head in skeptical amusement. “No wonder you were appointed shire reeve, John de Brissac. You see crime even where one has not been committed!”

The sheriff said nothing. With a half-dozen strides, he was inside the gates, looking for the door that led up into the left-hand tower. Hugo, rolling his eyes, followed the portly investigator. His skepticism was shaken, however, when de Brissac found the door that led to the turret stairs yawning on its hinges. It had not been so when Hugo had passed it moments before. He would have surely noticed.

“These towers are not in daily use, are they?” questioned the sheriff sharply, as he knelt to examine the dirt at the foot of the twisting staircase.

“Nay,” Hugo breathed. “They are not safe. The stairs sag and have not been repaired since my grandfather's day. My brother and I used to play in them as children, but—” He blanched, remembering the day of his return to Stephensgate Manor. Had not Jamie called down to him from this very tower?

As if he had read Hugo's mind, the sheriff lifted his head from his scrutiny of the dust and said, “'Twasn't the boy. Wee lad like that wouldn't have the strength to push an entire merlon over. Slab o' rock that size weighs as much as me.” Rising, de Brissac brushed dirt from the knees of his braies. “No, I see the boy's prints readily enough, but there are others here, all a-jumble. I'd say there were some visitors to these towers last night, durin' the festivities. Come. Let us climb up and see what there is to see.”

The narrow wooden staircase was even more treacherous than Hugo remembered. Entire slats were missing, others rotting and
warped, and the circular walls were covered with cobwebs and bird excrement. Creaking their protest as Hugo and the sheriff climbed them, the stairs threatened to give way beneath their combined weight. It was with relief that Hugo raised the wooden trapdoor that led to the dilapidated platform above. Inspecting the boards, Hugo thought them sound enough to hold his weight, and climbed through the trap to stand atop the watchtower.

Sheriff de Brissac, however, was not so trusting. He kept his enormous feet upon the staircase, his head and shoulders only through the trap as he squinted at the rotting planks.

“Aye,” he growled, pointing at the jagged edge of rock where a rectangular merlon had once rested, the seventh in a series of eight. “See that pile of rubble there? Someone's been working on loosening that stone for some time.”

Hugo knelt to examine the pulverized rock. It was clear that someone had spent long hours picking out the mortar between the merlon and the turret wall. It was a task that could only have been accomplished with a sharp metal tool and an indefatigable resolution to see it to completion. John de Brissac was correct. The merlon had not fallen from decay or natural ruin. Someone had intentionally loosened…and pushed it.

“Lord Hugo!”

Hugo straightened, and saw his squire standing in the stable yard below, looking about him idiotically. At Hugo's grunt, the boy looked up, then balked.

“Lord Hugo, what are you doing up there? 'Tisn't safe, you know. Monsieur Laroche told me that the very moment I arrived…”

“Laroche,” Hugo murmured, and the look he darted at the sheriff was shrewd. “I'd quite forgotten about Monsieur Laroche.”

The sheriff nodded briskly. “I'd best ride over to Leesbury
and see that the gentleman made it to his sister's safely. Perhaps something occurred to detain him—”

Hugo laughed. “Like an opportunity to murder his most despised enemy?”

“Lord Hugo,” Peter cried, from below. “Is Lady Finnula up there with you? I cannot find her, and I need to know what she wants me to do with Lord Geoffrey's toilet articles—”

Sheriff de Brissac had already started down the rickety staircase, and Hugo ducked his head to follow. “Did you try the back courtyard?” he tossed over his shoulder. “That's where I last spied her—”

“She isn't there…”

Hugo shrugged and hurried after the departing sheriff, ducking his head to avoid spiderwebs and bat dung. When he reached the bottom of the twisted staircase, his talkative squire was there waiting for him, his jaw slack at the sight of the broken merlon.

“My lord,” the youth stammered, hopping about wildly with excitement. “Somebody tried to kill you! Somebody is trying to kill you, my lord!”

“Close your mouth, you insolent pup.” Sheriff de Brissac was annoyed. Besides, he still had a bit of a headache from the previous evening's revelry. “No one is trying to kill His Lordship. Anyone can tell these towers are falling to bits.”

Hugo flashed the older man an appreciative glance. “Quite right, Sheriff. Peter, you are overexcited. Why don't you run and fetch old Webster, and have him direct someone to board up this door? It isn't safe in these towers, and I won't have Jamie break his neck playing up there…”

“Seems to me 'tis your own neck you ought to be lookin' out for, my lord,” Peter said, with some indignation. “If you don't mind my saying so, only a fool'd think that there merlon fell on its own—”

“Are you calling me a fool, boy?” Hugo swung around, loom
ing threateningly over his charge. The youth took an involuntary step backward, gulping.

“No, my lord!”

“Then get gone with you!” Hugo waved a dismissive arm. “Go and fetch Webster. Better yet, fetch a hammer and some nails and board up those doors yourself. No sense bothering the old man, when you're plenty able to oblige.”

The squire balked. “But I'm helpin' Lady Finnula with the disposal of His Lordship's things—”

Hugo was in no mood to cater to his squire's sensitive nature. He turned and bellowed, with not a little ill feeling, “Off with you, boy! I care not to see your milk-white face again until the task is done!”

Peter's milk-white face went a shade paler, and without another word, the youth turned and ran for the stables, where Webster kept the tools. Sheriff de Brissac was still chuckling over Hugo's outburst when Finnula emerged from the house, wiping her hands on a piece of cloth.

“What's all the shouting about?” she demanded, strolling toward them. “I can hardly hear myself think.”

Hugo was still fuming over his ward's thickheadedness. “That damned fool of a squire of mine. I have yet to hear an intelligent word out of his mouth, in all the weeks I've known him.”

Finnula grimaced. There was no love lost between her and the boy who'd nearly broken one of her ribs. “Oh.” She shuddered delicately. “Peter.” Then, with a sly glance at the sheriff, she nodded. “Good morning, Monsieur de Brissac. You are looking well this morning. I'm surprised, I must say. I could have sworn 'twas you I heard laughing beneath our window half the night.”

The sheriff, for the first time since Hugo's acquaintance with him, went red. Shuffling his massive feet, de Brissac hunched his shoulders and said, looking steadily at his own feet, “I admit I
might have overimbibed last eve. The wine was flowing rather steadily. 'Twas quite generous of Your Lord and Ladyship—”

“Hmph,” was all Finnula said, as she finished cleaning her hands, but it was clear she was stifling a smile at the sheriff's discomfort.

Anxious to change the subject, the sheriff lifted his head and said, eagerly, “Perhaps Her Ladyship saw someone come down from the tower earlier, and might be able to—”

Hugo quickly cut the older man off. “I assume you have breakfasted, my love,” he said, wrapping an arm about his wife's waist. He ignored her raised eyebrows, pretending not to remember their tiff barely an hour before. “But what say you to sharing the midday meal with your husband? I thought we might ride to the millhouse and pay a call on your sister. She, too, after all, is newly wed.”

Finnula, to his relief, smiled prettily at this suggestion, all rancor forgotten. “Oh! And I can welcome my new brother to the family. I had no opportunity yesterday—”

“And I shall make sure you come bearing gifts for him, and not arms,” Hugo warned. Finnula frowned with disappointment at this, which sent the sheriff into guffaws.

“But you shan't be paying any social calls dressed like that,” Hugo said, with mock severity. “Go and put on your finery. You are the wife of an earl now, and must be attired accordingly.”

Finnula rolled her eyes but traipsed off obediently, slinging the cloth with which she'd wiped her hands around her slender neck like a scarf. Hugo glanced at the sheriff, to thank him for refraining from mentioning the broken merlon in front of the girl, but saw that de Brissac's attention was fully focused elsewhere. Following the older man's gaze, Hugo ground his teeth. It was his own wife's fetching backside that the sheriff found so absorbing.
All the more reason, Hugo decided, for the leather braies to join his father's belongings on the bonfire that eve.

Hooking an arm around de Brissac's neck, Hugo spun the larger man away from the sight of Finnula's retreating figure. “Come, John,” he growled. “I have a need to see whether you lot consumed every last drop of ale in my brew house last night.”

The sheriff seemed to recall himself, and coughed uncomfortably. “Ah,” he said. “'Twould explain the pounding in my head were you to find every barrel empty.”

“Unfortunately, the only explanation for my throbbing side is that I was hit by a sheriff the size of a cart horse.”

Sheriff de Brissac's expression grew grave. “My lord, you had best face the fact that someone seems quite anxious to see you dead. I would advise the use of caution until I have had a chance to pay a call upon our friend Laroche.”

“Caution,” Hugo echoed, shaking his head. “I thought when I returned from Egypt I would have no more need for that kind of caution.” Holding up both his hands, Hugo made a gesture that encompassed the entire stable yard and cloudless sky. “This is my home. Yet 'twould seem I needs fear for my life in my very bed!”

Sheriff de Brissac was thoughtfully stroking his beard, and Hugo did not miss the fact that the older man's eyes had strayed once more in Finnula's direction.

“Not your bed, I hope, my lord,” the sheriff said. “You cannot mean that literally.”

Hugo instantly saw de Brissac's meaning and glowered. “Certainly not,” he said stiffly. “'Twas only an expression.”

But he, too, found himself staring in the direction Finnula had departed, wondering if perhaps that was precisely what someone intended for him to think.