Susan Spencer Paul (13 page)

“Aye, that is so, my lady,” he admitted, “but now that our lord has arrived, all will be well.” He looked at Hugh. “We have vowed to work as long and as hard as we must to bring Briarstone about. All we need is someone to guide us and to lend us support.”

But that wouldn’t be enough, Rosaleen wanted to insist aloud, knowing full well that what Briarstone needed was money, a great deal of it, as well as expert management. Without those two essentials the estate would fail, and all the labor and support in the world wouldn’t save it.

She was about to speak, to make this point in as gentle a way as she could, when she was stopped by the expression on Hugh Caldwell’s face. He looked, quite plainly, as though he was about to bolt.

“You are fortunate then, people of Briarstone,” she addressed the assembled, wondering as she did where the words were coming from and why she couldn’t make them stop, “for Hugh Caldwell will guide you well. Indeed, better and more ably than any other man on God’s earth could do.”

What in God’s holy name was she
saying?
she wondered with horror. Hugh Caldwell’s face mirrored her thoughts exactly, and she wondered if he was going to reach out and strike her to try to bring back her senses.

“Thank you so
much,
my lady,” Hugh replied stiffly.

Katherine spoke up suddenly.

“We got a chamber upstairs readied fer you, m’lord, but we din’t ‘spect fer you to ‘ave a wife.” She blushed hotly. “So we don’t got nothin’ ready fer you, m’lady.”

“She’s not my wife,” Hugh told her, and Rosaleen said at the same time, “Oh! I’m not his wife!”

Everyone looked at them.

Hugh and Rosaleen exchanged glances.

“The lady Rosaleen is my, uh…” Hugh began, unsure.

“Sister!” Rosaleen replied, just exactly as Hugh announced, “Cousin!”

They exchanged glances again, a bit hotter, and both opened their mouths to speak.

“Sister,” he said.

“Cousin,” she said.

Hugh lifted a hand and set it firmly over Rosaleen’s mouth. He looked at his perplexed vassals and explained, “It’s a confused lineage in our family. Suffice it to say that the lady Rosaleen is
not
my wife.”

Rosaleen shoved his hand away with a
huff,
and the seven women of Briarstone looked at their master with renewed interest.

“As well,” Hugh continued, “I would ask that you call me Hugh Caldwell, or even Hugh, but do not name me as either sir or lord, for it suits me not.”

The people of Briarstone gaped at him.

“But are you not a knight?” Christian Rowsenly demanded.

“No, thank God,” replied Hugh. “And, unlike the lady Rosaleen, I’ve no claim to nobility. I am bastard born, and naught better than one of the king’s paid soldiers.”

Christian Rowsenly, staring hard at the big man who was now the master of Briarstone in place of his dead brother, had some difficulty reconciling these words with his memories of the bold, skilled man who had so easily bested three robbers earlier that day. He shook his head.

“Very well, my…Hugh Caldwell. It shall be as you say, though you must give us time to become used to it.”

“Of course,” Hugh replied. “You will find me a tolerable master, I think.”

Christian frowned, and some indefinable emotion passed briefly over his handsome features. When he swung his head to look back at the girls, Rosaleen thought she saw a great deal of sadness in his eyes.

“Let us show Hugh Caldwell his chamber,” Christian said, “and find a fit chamber for the lady Rosaleen.” He walked toward the uneven stone stairway, and Hugh and Rosaleen followed. “There are more than twelve chambers above stairs,” he said, “but we do not use them. None of the fires work, save one in the great hall and one in the master’s chamber, so we remain in the hall, where ‘tis warmer, in spite of the missing wall.” He set a foot on the bottom stair and, with a resolute glance into the darkness above, began to climb. “I think you will be pleased at how well we have learned to live with the little we have at hand.”

L
ying in the darkness, his head pillowed atop his clasped hands, Hugh tried, for the fifth time, to make himself sleep. He closed his eyes tightly and began counting.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…”

No, that wasn’t right. He opened his eyes and tried to recall what his mother had told him when he was little. Her soft voice and even softer hands were easy to recall; he would never forget her tender gentling of him after he’d waken from one of his bad dreams.

“Count back from one hundred, Hugh,” she’d say, stroking her beautiful fingers slowly through his hair, “and before you reach one you shall be asleep.”

It had always worked. He would begin to count aloud, and she would stay beside him, stroking his hair, keeping him safe, until he’d unwittingly fallen to sleep.

He closed his eyes once more and tried again as he now remembered it should be.

“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven…”

“It’s all right, my Hugh. It’s all right, son. Go ahead and cry.”

“No,” Hugh said aloud, and began counting more loudly, “Ninety-six, ninety-five, ninety-four…”

It didn’t work. His mother was gone. Dead. Strong arms circled him in his memory, holding him close, rocking him, soothing him while he cried and cried and…

“No!”

He sat up.

“Damn!” he swore, swallowing hard and trying to force his breathing to slow. He worked at calming himself for several long moments, then he lay down again, shut his eyes and took up counting from the beginning.

“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six…”

He tried to force his mind to concentrate on the numbers, but still the memories rose up to torment him.

A long arm reaching out to hug him, the warm, deep laughter, the words. “You rascal, Hugh Baldwin! I should turn you over my knee for giving me such a fright!”

And him laughing…laughing as if he had a right to laugh with this man. “You were scared, Father! You were scared!”

“I’m never scared!”

“You were scared for me!”

More laughter. Why had he ever laughed with that bastard?

“I wasn’t scared,” his father had insisted, “I just didn’t like the thought of my Hugh being up so high!” Then he’d taken Hugh up in his strong arms, hugging him and shaking him with violent affection so that his skinny little-boy legs had whipped back and forth until he had laughed…laughed…

“No!” he shouted into the darkness, bolting up in the bed again.

Hugh didn’t let himself think this time. He threw the covers aside and got out of the bed.

Standing by the only opening in the room, a small window more suited for defense than for letting in light and air, he drew in his breath with forced slowness, calming himself, easing the pain of his body and mind.

What he needed, he thought as he ran his damp hands through his tangled hair, was a fight…a good, hard, wearying fight. That would fix him for a while, or at least would tire him enough so that he could sleep.

Of course, there wasn’t much chance of finding a good fight in this rotting castle he found himself stuck with…a good fight or anything else he might want. There was no ale, no gaming. There weren’t even any women available to him, if the look Rosaleen had given him earlier when he’d innocently dallied with the ladies of Briarstone was anything to judge by.

The wretched female! It was
her
fault that he was in such painful need of a woman. The least she could do was turn a blind eye while he relieved himself with the more than willing wenches who had been such a welcome surprise in the midst of the rest of this mess.

Briarstone! God’s mercy, what a fool he’d made of himself these past many months with all his hopes and dreams about being his own man with his own estate. He rubbed his eyes in misery. No wonder King Henry had been so pleased to grant his request. No one, no soundminded person, could possibly want to find himself possessed of this ancient pile of rocks.

He’d wanted to run. He had taken one look at the wreck they’d walked into and had wanted to grab Rosaleen, drag her back out to their horses, mount up and ride away.

And he might have done just that if he hadn’t made the fatal mistake of glancing at the people standing in that long, straight line. It amazed him still, as he thought of it now, how that one brief glance had done him in. The
great, immovable Hugh Caldwell, conquered in a moment by the grimy faces of the most ragged group of beings he’d ever set eyes on. The looks on their faces…the eagerness, hope, even relief, had felled him more surely than any sword could have done.

He had nothing to offer these people; less than nothing, in truth. No money, no husbandry skills, no morality…nothing. Almost anyone would be better able to help them than he. But he couldn’t leave. Not now. Not after he’d seen the way they’d looked at him, as though he were the answer to all their prayers, as though he were their savior finally arrived. In a moment his desire to run had changed into a fierce desire to stay and to make this wreck of a place into something. If such a thing were possible.

So now they were stuck with each other. He with a crumbling ruin and a number of vassals the likes of which he doubted any other man had ever possessed, and they with a mercenary who had neither birth nor fortune nor any decent qualities to redeem him.

Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true, he thought, trying to be generous with himself. He did know how to hunt, and would spend the next several days using that knowledge to fill the empty larder of Briarstone as best he could. And he had brought Rosaleen to these needy people.

He’d been mistaken about her, he had realized very quickly after their arrival. The way she had taken charge of the people of Briarstone, easily commanding their respect and obedience, made it clear that she’d have no troubles running his household. She knew what she was doing, and he knew full well that her admirable skills couldn’t have been learned in any lowly hovel.

The thought made his forehead crease with displeasure. If she wasn’t the lowly daughter of some small landed lord, then just who, or better yet, what—was she?

A soft rap at his door drew his attention.

“H-H-Hugh?” Rosaleen’s voice came trembling through the darkness.

An unbidden smile bloomed on his lips.

The door opened a little more. “Hugh? May I c-come in?”

It was so dark that Hugh could barely make out her slender, white-clad form. “I’m here by the window, Rosaleen. Come.”

He thought he heard a sound of relief just before she shut the door again, and he watched as, feeling her way with both hands on the chamber’s stone wall, she made her way toward him.

When she got within reach, he stretched out a hand and drew her shivering body to him. She surprised him by not stopping just in front of him, as he had thought she would, but by moving until she actually bumped up against him, wrapping her arms about his waist and pushing her face against his shoulder as if she were a child seeking shelter.

“Why, Rosaleen,” he murmured, sliding his arms about her, “you’re frightened. What’s happened? Did you find rats in your chamber?”

“Of course not!” she replied indignantly, her voice muffled against his bare skin. “I’m not frightened. I never get frightened.”

“No? Then why do you shake so?”

She sniffed before answering, “I’m cold.”

He laughed. “Of course. In the midst of summer with the rest of us sweating, you somehow contrive to be cold. You are the most contrary female on God’s earth, Rosaleen no-name.”

Rosaleen didn’t laugh. “My chamber is so dark and…cold.” She sniffed again, and Hugh reached up a hand to touch her wet cheek.

“God’s mercy,” he whispered with dismay, “you’re crying!”

“No.” She shook her head against him. “I’m not crying. I never cry.”

“Oh, sweeting.” He rubbed his hands over her slender shoulders in a soothing caress. “You are frightened. Because you are weary? Because of the dark? There’s no shame in that. This old keep is as dark as the Fiend’s soul. If we had some candles, it would be a little better.”

“But we haven’t any candles.” Rosaleen sniffled once more. “Oh, Hugh, what can we do? There is much to be done here and naught to do it with.”

“Is that what makes you weep?” he asked softly, drying her cheeks with gentle fingers. “You’ve no need to fear, sweeting. I’ll not let you suffer either hunger or harm.”

Her delicate fingers wrapped around his wrists, stilling him.

“I know that, Hugh Caldwell, but I am not your only care. These people have so little, not even a decent well for water, and the few things they do have are so meager and poor. Other than the oxen, the bed in this chamber is the only item of any value.”

“John Rowsenly’s one allowance for his comfort,” Hugh admitted, thinking of all the dreams that had died with that man.

“What are we going to do?” she asked again, worry heavy in her voice. “I feel at such a loss. Without money, what can we even hope to do?”

He cradled her face in his hands, unable to reason why he should want so much to comfort her.

“We’ll do what we can, as we can,” he said, striving to speak with a confidence he didn’t feel. “It shouldn’t be so bad. For the next few days we’ll work to increase our supply of food. I’ll take some of the men hunting on the mor
row and will send Alex a missive, asking him to send Amazon to me as soon as may be. Once I’ve got her back I’ll be able to keep meat on the table. Meat we’ll not have to steal, which should prove a relief to our neighbors. Then we’ll turn our attention to repairing the well, or to digging a new one if necessary.”

“And then?” she pressed.

“Then,” he said with a weary sigh, moving his hands to rest on her shoulders, “we wait three months until the harvest, and pray each morn and eve that the fields we saw this day fulfill their promise of riches.”

“It will not be enough,” Rosaleen said sadly. “Whatever money you receive from the harvest will be needed to prepare for the next harvest. There will be naught left for repairs, for anything.”

“We’ll have to hope there will be,” he replied. “Or we’ll have to survive with what we get.”

“There is a better way, Hugh Caldwell. Better and much more reasonable.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Yes, I suppose there is. I could organize and train the men a little better and we could make a good living as highway robbers. And the girls might be willing to make the place a whorehouse. I daresay Briarstone could make a small fortune in a year’s time.”

“Or you could write your brother and ask him to help you,” she put in as quickly as she could, trying to ride on his good humor.

The painful squeezing of his fingers on her shoulders told Rosaleen that his humor had flown.

“And why would I want to do such a foolish thing, Rosaleen? I think you must have lost your senses.”

“It’s not foolish,” she insisted, pushing at his chest to make him release her. “You have a right to a portion of Gyer…”

“I have no right to anything of Gyer!”

“You do!” Shoving free, she faced him, hands on hips. “As a younger son you have a right to a share of your father’s and brother’s estate!”

“Charles Baldwin was
not
my father!” he shouted with sudden rage. “And don’t ever,” he warned when she opened her mouth to argue, “suggest that that bastard acknowledged me as his son. Indeed, Rosaleen, you would be well advised never to speak his name in my hearing again.”

Drawing in a breath, Rosaleen tried again, more calmly. “Notwithstanding what that man may or may not have felt for you or you for him, Hugh Caldwell, you still have a claim to a portion of the Baldwin estates. Your brother, the Lord of Gyer, made that quite clear when we were with them.”

“My
half
brother is a good and benevolent man,” Hugh stated angrily. “He is as charitable to the bastard son of Jaward Ryon as he is to his vassals and villeins. Do you ask me to take advantage of him because he was born with such unruly faults?”

“By the rood!” Rosaleen swore. “You are beyond understanding! You impugn your kind brother and yourself all in the same breath! But no one is safe from your venom when your pride is threatened, are they? You keep running from what you are, refusing to accept the truth, and when you can’t run fast enough you fight to keep from thinking. What will you do now, Hugh Caldwell? Will you stay at Briarstone and watch these people starve and suffer because you were too proud to help them, or will you run again to keep from thinking of them?”

He glared at her through the darkness and Rosaleen could see the harsh movement of his chest.

“Briarstone is my estate, Rosaleen, and you are naught but my servant for the next three months. Don’t speak to me of it again, and don’t mention my noble brother again, either, if you know what’s good for you.”

Rosaleen stiffened.
“Yes,
my Lord Caldwell.
Certainly,
my Lord Caldwell. Please forgive your lowly servant for being so forward as to make a sensible suggestion to you, my Lord Caldwell. Please continue to let your people starve, my Lord Caldwell. Please continue to behave like an idiot, my Lord Caldwell. If you will but pardon your lowly servant, my Lord Caldwell, I shall take my leave!” And with that she began to stumble in the darkness, furiously, in what she hoped was the direction of the door.

Strong hands grabbed her before she could take more than three steps, and Rosaleen found herself gasping for breath as Hugh slammed her up against his hard chest.

“That sharp tongue of yours, Rosaleen,” he said softly, “will be the end of one of us yet.”

His mouth came down on hers before she could make a reply, and one strong hand held the back of her head so that she couldn’t escape him.

The first kiss was hard, painful, and Rosaleen whimpered with fear. Hugh lifted his head at once, then lowered it and kissed her again, gently this time, with an unexpected tenderness that melted Rosaleen’s rage like a handful of snow under a hot sun.

He was so needy, so wanting. She couldn’t deny him. She loved him…loved him so that the feeling was an agony rather than a pleasure, as she had always thought love would be. She loved him, aye, the truth of it ran deep in her as his kiss grew demanding and as his hands began to move over her thinly covered body. She had loved him for
days now, for so long she didn’t even know when she had started.