Norwyck's Lady. Margo Maguire
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memory disappeared before it really took hold in her mind, and Marguerite could not recapture it, though she concentrated hard enough to make herself light-headed. Frowning, she bit her lip and refrained from groaning in frustration.
“My lady?” Eleanor asked as she placed one hand on Marguerite’s arm.
“Oh, ’tis naught,” she replied, giving the child a quavering smile. “My head…’tis just a bit sore is all.”
“Mayhap you should return to your bed,” Eleanor said, her voice full of concern.
“I’ll be fine,” Marguerite said, “though a walk outside might help.” She thought the fresh air might serve to clear her head, and possibly bring back the memories that were so elusive.
“Shall we go and see Bartie?” Eleanor asked, following Marguerite’s lead in pushing away from the table.
“I think not,” she replied. She doubted that Bartholomew would appreciate her arrival upon the practice field. He barely tolerated her presence in the tower. “Mayhap to the beach? Where your brother found me?”
Kathryn slapped one hand upon the table. “Bartholomew will be angry if you go outside the walls.”
“Just to the beach?”
“You know what he said, Eleanor,” Kathryn said angrily. She addressed her sister, as if it had not been Marguerite who had spoken. “No one is to leave Norwyck’s walls. Not with the Armstrong threatening us at every—”
“Well, our men routed the Armstrongs when they last attacked, did they not?” John asked.
“Yes, but—”
“’Tis no matter, Kathryn,” Marguerite said, unwilling to ruffle anyone’s feathers. “I’ll walk in the garden if that’s permissible.”
Kathryn shrugged. “It should be all right,” she said grudgingly.
“We’ll come with you,” John said, arising from the table.
“Nay, John,” Marguerite said. She needed to be alone to try to sort out her thoughts. She touched Eleanor’s head gently, and addressed them both. “I’d like to go by myself this time.”
Both children looked disappointed, but they accepted Marguerite’s declination graciously.
“Shall I find you a shawl?” Eleanor asked, regaining her usual enthusiasm.
Marguerite smiled. “That would be lovely.”
Bartholomew handed his helm and sword to the young page, while his squire unfastened the heavy breastplate and pulled it off him. Then he bent at the waist and unbuckled his own cuisses and greaves while he gave Henry’s argument his full attention.
“But, Bartholomew, ’Tis well past time for me to begin my training,” the lad said. “I’ll never become a knight if you do not give your consent.”
Henry’s argument was a valid one, but Bart would rather keep his brothers at Norwyck, safe behind its stout walls. If he sent them out to foster, they’d be subject to all sorts of dangers. Here, at least, he could keep them protected. Safe.
Bart handed the last of his armor to his squire and turned to Henry. “I’ll give it due consideration, Hal.”
“Not good enough, Bart,” Henry said, digging in his heels. “I am ready. You know I am.”
Bart put his arm across his brother’s shoulders and started walking. “You are that anxious to leave us?”
“’Tis not that,” Henry said. “But how will I ever become a man, make something of myself as you and Will did? If you do not send me out to foster—”
“Hal, I did not deny your request,” Bart said. “I merely said—”
“That you’d consider it. Aye, I know,” Henry said. “Please, Bart. I want to become a knight, like you. Like William. I want to come back and fight the damnable Armstrongs. Mayhap one day I’ll be the one to bring Lachann Armstrong’s head to Norwyck.”
“Mayhap,” Bart said quietly. After all that had occurred, he’d hoped his younger brothers would be content to remain at Norwyck. Clearly, that was not the case. At least not with Henry. John gave no sign of wanting to leave, but ’twas possible the lad just kept his own counsel. He tended to be less outspoken than his twin.
Bart let his arm drop, and continued walking toward the hall. The chilly air cooled his overheated body, right through the light tunic and hose that he wore. He was looking forward to a bath and a shave, and did not want to think about his brothers leaving.
As they neared the keep, Bart caught sight of a woman walking toward the postern gate, a small, rusted entryway from the beach that was so rarely used, he’d forgotten it. ’Twas Marguerite.
“Go on ahead,” he said to Henry. “I’ll return later.”
Angry with his lack of a decisive answer, Henry did not protest, but stalked away as Bartholomew headed toward Marguerite.
Her skirts were green, and she was wrapped in a dark woolen shawl that concealed her form from her neck to her hips. Her head was uncovered, and her honey-brown tresses were attractively confined in soft, artful plaits that set off the delicate bones of her face.
Bart chastised himself for beginning to believe the woman’s story, only to find her attempting to slip away from Norwyck. Where was she going, and who did she plan to meet? He sped up his pace in order to catch up with her before she could pass through the gate.
“Where are you going?” he asked roughly, grabbing hold of her arm.
She winced in pain as he pulled her around to face him, but Bart refused to take note of her discomfort. Chivalry be damned. He had no intention of letting her play him for a fool.
“T-to the garden,” she replied, pulling away from him.
Her hesitation betrayed her. True enough, Norwyck’s expansive garden lay adjacent to the wall, but Bartholomew was certain she would not have stammered had she spoken the truth.
He made a rude noise. “I don’t know why I bothered to ask.”
“I—”
“Get back to the keep, madam,” he said. “And do not venture—”
“Nay!” she cried, standing firm as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I have no intention of returning to the keep until I’ve had my walk.”
“’Tis not for you to defy—”
“Nor should you try to hold me prisoner!” she said, her eyes flashing angrily. Her chin trembled and she swallowed once, drawing his eyes to the muscles working in her delicate neck. The pulse at the base of her throat throbbed rapidly. “I have done naught to you or yours, my lord, and I wish you would stop your…your vile insinuations!”
Without hesitation, she flipped the end of her shawl over her shoulder, turned and strode away.
Bart dropped his hands to his sides and stood speechless for a moment, watching as she stepped onto the garden path. Her back was straight, and she held her head high, though he could see that her poise was hard-won. She was not nearly as confident as she would have him believe, and her boldness intrigued him.
He went after her.
Quickly catching up, he took hold of her arm again and whirled her around. Her chest rose and fell with each rapid breath, and her eyes were dark with anger. Her cheeks were now flushed with color, and her mouth parted in surprise. Without thinking, Bartholomew lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.
Marguerite was shocked by the heat of his mouth and the sound of need that emerged from deep within him. She was suddenly awash with her own needs, her own cravings. She was drowning again.
The kiss was no light brushing of lips, but a meeting of flesh that quickly intensified