Suzanne Robinson (5 page)

Tristan turned his face away, setting his hot cheek on hers, and gulped in deep breaths. Then he lifted his head to look into her alarmed eyes and gave her a pained smile.

“If you wish to avoid such encounters, I advise you to find me clothing, Mistress Fairfax.”

“Oh.”

“Aye, chuck. Now, if you will close your eyes, I’ll return to my chamber. But if I’m not clothed and fed in the space of an hour, I’ll come looking for you as I am, with no sheet.”

“No!”

Her outrage made him chuckle. He stepped away from her. Pen’s glance darted down, as he’d known it would. She turned the color of a rose, gave a small whimper, and squeezed her eyes shut. Taking pity on her, he turned, picked up his sheet, and vanished into his chamber. She must have opened her eyes quickly, for she banged the door shut after him.

He heard the tap of her slippers on the stone stairs as she fled. Glancing down at himself, Tristan sighed. He went to a washbowl resting on a sideboard and splashed icy water on his face and chest. He spent the next few minutes calming his rampant urges. By the time Mistress Fairfax knocked on his door, he was resting in bed again with the covers drawn up to his chest.

“Enter, Gratiana, if you dare.”

After her encounter with Tristan in the stairwell, Pen fled as if hell’s fires licked at her heels. Avoiding the bustle of the hall, she took refuge in the solar, where she’d been preparing clothing for her unwanted guest. She dismissed Nany Boggs and shut herself inside. Shaking, she tried to warm herself in the sun’s rays that beamed through one of the open windows.

She had feared this young man, but for the wrong reasons. How could she have known? In her experience, young men strutted about with their manhood’s pride on display. They took offense at the cheeping of sparrows and provoked quarrels that lead to duels, blood, and death.

How long ago had she learned this lesson? At least seven years, for she’d been but fourteen. She, in her impulsive innocence, had followed a pretty young coxcomb named Will into the streets of the market town near her parents’ manor. It had been a madness, the madness of a foolish maid’s captivation with an older youth.

She’d gone but a few yards, when her quarry met a group of young men. Swaggers led to jeers, which turned to buffets. A glove sailed through the air to land in the dirt at their feet. Pen shrank into a doorway as the singing of metal heralded a duel. The jeers rose
to shouts. She was jostled and crammed against the threshold, her face rammed into the back of someone’s leather jerkin.

Then she was free, in time to see Will backing toward her. His opponent rained sword blows at him. Will parried, then dodged, but he wasn’t quick enough.

The tip of a sword slashed in front of Pen’s eyes. It jabbed, straight into Will’s heart. He fell at her feet, his pride flooding out of him with his life’s blood. She remembered dropping to her knees to touch his face and look into his startled eyes as his soul fled his body. She remembered touching the blood over his heart, and screaming.

Pen closed her eyes against the memory, and lifted her face to the warmth of sunbeams. She’d expected bloody madness from this young man, this Tristan. Never had she expected these confusing feelings, this physical disturbance that made sea storms seem calm.

But he had no memory. Most like, he was as full of violence as any young man but didn’t remember it. And now she couldn’t rid herself of him as she would like, for no good Christian would cast out a man in such difficulty. She considered sending him across the island to Ponder Cutwell, but reluctantly discarded the idea. No one could trust to the generosity and mercy of Ponder Cutwell. Was there no escape?

Tristan disturbed her. She couldn’t forget him. She couldn’t make these feelings go away.

Mayhap it was his doing apurpose, for he seemed to know how to compel her fascination against her will and regardless of her fear, how to draw her to him without speaking a word. He’d done it even when he lay senseless on the rocks at the cliff.

She had thought to avoid him and thus relieve herself of the disturbance, but the moment he’d gotten
to his feet, he’d nearly toppled the keep walls with his shouts for her. And then … and then this disaster upon the landing.

Mother of God, he had saved her from a perilous fall only to come so near her that she’d smelled his scent. He’d smelled of the sea, of smoke, of himself. Then she in her cowardice over a near fall had allowed him to touch her in ways unimaginable. And what had been her recompense? Near seduction, and afterward, orders. Nay, commands.

She must keep a distance from him and pray for the early arrival of the supply boat. She would send him away on it regardless of the state of his memory. Aye, that was the wise course, for if his memory returned, most like he’d turn out to be as bloody-natured as all young men, and that she couldn’t endure again and remain in possession of her wits.

“Aye,” she said aloud. “You can just molt in that room with Nany and Dibbler for company, Sir No-Name.”

But if she didn’t give him clothing, he’d come after her. This much she had learned. His majesty King Tristan stood for no transgression against his royal self.

Aye, but she wasn’t about to allow him to order her around in her own keep, by the saints. And she couldn’t keep living in fear of him and what he might do. She had certain affairs that needed tending to. Work had to be done. The castle and its folk cared for. They had no one to look after them but her. By the saints, she’d show Tristan who was mistress of Highcliffe.

With this avowal, Pen picked up a bundle of clothing from a stack recently mended and placed it in a portable chest along with the small collection of Tristan’s belongings. Her conscience troubled her over the omission of the serpent dagger. It was safely concealed
with all the swords and daggers in the castle. It would remain there.

Snapping the lid of the chest closed, she answered a knock. Erbut walked in looking as vacantly willing to please as ever. At her orders, he picked up the chest and followed her to the tower and upstairs to her chamber. She knocked, praying that Tristan had the manners to be in bed and covered.

“Enter, Gratiana, if you dare.”

She felt her face burn. Glancing back at Erbut, she met his appalled stare.

“Cursed arrogance,” she muttered to herself, and slammed the door open.

He was in bed, thank God. In bed and smirking at her as if he knew she’d feared he would be standing naked in the middle of the room. Cheeks flaming, Pen marched into the room and pointed to a spot on the floor. Erbut set down the chest and stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and gawked at the guest.

Pen opened the chest without looking at Tristan, snatched up his possessions, and carried them to the bed. She dropped them on his lap.

“There, sirrah, are your clothes and other oddments. As you can see, they were in no condition for your use. I, in my foolish desire to see you provided with better, have altered others left here by my father before he died.”

At least he had the grace to stop smirking. He even thanked her. She watched his merriment turn to solemnity, and then to concern as he examined the collection.

As he picked up a bundle of shredded and torn clothing, she dismissed Erbut. He wouldn’t want the boy to witness his confusion. She watched him finger the
remnants of hose of the finest wool, a leather jerkin, wisps of cambric that had once been a shirt, a belt of expensive leather, and a pouch. He opened the pouch, but it was empty.

In silence, Pen produced a shapeless mess that had once been papers. Neither of them could pry apart the fused mass. If they’d succeeded, the effort would have been to no avail, for the ink had run, leaving blots of gray and black instead of words. Even the broken seal on the end of the papers had been crushed into unrecognizable bits.

He shook his head. His expression grew dark, and his mouth tightened.

“Nothing. I remember none of it.”

“Mayhap later.”

“Mayhap never.”

What could she say? Her own anger faded at the sight of his dismay. She thought she heard a sigh, but he’d turned his head so that she couldn’t see his expression.

“I pray you, Mistress Fairfax. Leave me.”

“It’s near dusk and time for our meal.”

“My thanks, mistress, but I desire nothing at the moment but solitude, if you would be so gracious.”

His very gallantry spoke of suffering. Feeling guilty for her recent uncharitable thoughts, Pen nodded.

“As you wish. I’ll send up something along with Twistle’s camomile tea. It will help you rest.”

She left him lying there, alone, with his face averted from her.

Tristan woke from a dreamless rest some hours later to find the chamber dark. And he still had no memory. Restless, fearing to fall prey to hopelessness, he
dressed and went to the window. He climbed onto the embrasure and looked outside. A rolling fog crept across the inner bailey and surrounded the dovecote and beehives. The old glass in the window made the fog ripple. His breath misted on the panes. On the wall walk he could make out a sputtering torch. Dibbler should have been beside it, but wasn’t.

There was no surprise in this fact. He was beginning to realize that Pen conducted the running of Highcliffe in hugger-mugger fashion. She had no real men-at-arms, and Dibbler was a poor alternate. If ever a young woman needed a man’s guidance and abilities, it was this one. She hadn’t the sense to govern her own humors, much less a castle and manor.

Where was the old fool? He’d met Dibbler yesterday, and a more ignorant and know-everything villain had yet to be born. No, that wasn’t true. Sniggs, the teller of unbelievably bad lies, rivaled Dibbler. While he was trying to decide which of the two buffoons was worse, a soft thud caught his attention.

He shot to his feet—too quickly—for he wavered and had to steady himself against the wall. He was paying for his day’s unwise activity. Once his dizziness passed, he sped across the chamber to the door and cracked it open. Whispers floated up the spiral stairs, growing more and more faint. He followed them.

The stair was so black, he couldn’t see his own body. He felt his way down, hugging the wall. Voices sounded on the landing below, and he stopped.

“I get to hold the rope. I’m captain of the guard.”

“There be no guard except for me and Turnip and Erbut.”

“That’s a guard.”

“A pox on you, Dibbler. That be a shepherd and a farmer.”

“And there’s Wheedle,” Dibbler hissed.

A snort made its way up the stairs. “Wheedle be a pig girl.”

He was about to return to his chamber, when he heard Pen’s light voice.

“God’s patience! Cease this perfidious bickering. Dibbler will hold the rope. Sniggs, you will bear the torch, and Wheedle and I will follow. We’re supposed to meet Turnip and Erbut, and you’ve made us late with this witless quarrel.”

A shuffling noise signaled the progress of the group below him. He crept after them, down past the chapel to the well room. He waited in the blackness of the threshold while Pen and her servitors bustled out of the room, into the entry hall and outside. Fog was lapping at the steep stairway by the time he reached the top of it.

He flattened himself against the iron-studded oak door of the keep and watched Pen’s cloak vanish into the rising whiteness. Forgetting his condition, he thrust away from the door and raced down the stairs after her. What lunacy! She was cavorting with those lackwits in the middle of the night. God save him from witless women. Halfway down, his strength disappeared, an anvil broke inside his head, and his knees buckled.

Cursing, he threw out his arms and dropped to the stone steps, bruising a shin. He crouched there, breathing heavily and shivering. By the time he regained his strength and was able to stand, Pen and her band were gone.

Thwarted and out of temper with his own weakness as much as with Pen’s recklessness, he regained the stairs. He returned to his chamber, found a cloak and blankets, and slowly climbed the stairs to the top of
the keep. Once outside on the top of one of the keep’s four towers, he settled himself in an embrasure and waited.

Soon he found it hard to keep his eyes open. Then, after what seemed like hours, he heard a faint whispering. Glancing around, he could find no other person abroad in the night. The whispering faded into a hiss, a pulsing murmur. Tristan covered his ears, but the sound remained. He lowered his hands and turned his head, staring into the darkness. Abruptly, the murmuring faded. He waited for it to return, and in waiting, he fell asleep.

When he woke, he found himself in a world in which the ground had vanished beneath a veil of white clouds. Silence beat at him, and his body was stiff from crouching in one position. He shivered and climbed out of the embrasure. It had been foolish to remain outside in this cloying mist.

He descended the stairs wrapped in his cloak and blankets, but halfway down the flight that led to the floor above his chamber he heard an unholy screech that made him jump. Shrugging off his blankets, he flattened himself against the wall, and reached for a sword he didn’t have.

“Rrreeeeeeeee!”

The noise crawled up his spine and made the hair stand up on his neck.

“Rreeeeeeeee! Ree, reee, reee, ugh, ugh, ugh. Reeeeeeee!”

“Wheedle, make her stop that. She’ll wake Tristan.”

“Yes, mistress, but it be a malignant thing, prodding her up all these stairs.”

Wild surmise drew him forward. He pushed his cloak back over his shoulder and walked down the last flight of stairs. On the landing above the floor housing his own chamber, he met a spectacle. A girl in a smock,
hose, and boots was crouched with her back to him, tugging on a rope. Attached to the rope was a brass ring; attached to the ring was the largest and most irritated sow ever to grace a castle keep. And shouldering the distraught pig from behind was his golden-eyed savior, Mistress Penelope Fairfax. Tristan forgot his own misery at the sight of Pen grunting and shoving a pig.

“Pull hard, Wheedle,” she said between gasps.