Scoundrel Of Dunborough. Margaret Moore
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Roland.
Given the passage of time since she had last seen either of them, change was to be expected. She had been twelve years old when she had left Dunborough, and Gerrard and Roland fifteen.
It was also surely to be expected that whispers of surprise and speculation would follow them like a breeze through bracken. No doubt many would wonder who she was and what she was doing there, especially with Gerrard. Some, perhaps, would recognize her, although it had been ten years since she’d been sent to Saint Agatha’s.
She cast her gaze toward the castle. The stronghold had grown more massive in the time that she’d been gone. Even when she lived there, Gerrard’s father had always been adding to it, building more walls and towers, raising the money from the tenants’ labors and merchants’ fees, as well as fines for almost any infraction, no matter how minor.
She tried not to think about Sir Blane or the old days as she walked past the stalls and shops of the village, the smithy with its gaggle of old men outside and the well with a similar group of matrons, all eyeing them with curiosity. A gaggle of children, laughing and giggling, chased an inflated pig’s bladder down a nearby alley. She turned away, ignoring the little pang of loss. The lack of children was a small price to pay for the peace and security of the religious life.
Gerrard was still silent as they reached the outer walls and proceeded through the thick, bossed gates, the grassy outer ward, the inner gate and then the inner ward, beneath the portcullis and through the final gate into the cobblestoned courtyard.
She said nothing, either, even when they reached the great hall.
It was just as huge and barren as she recalled, awe-inspiring in a bone-chilling way. It wasn’t only the size that made it so. There was a central hearth and stone pillars, but no ornamentation of any kind. No pennants, no tapestries, no paint, no carving. The floor was covered in rushes and she could smell the fleabane, but that was the only herb she could detect. There was no hint of rosemary or anything else to add a pleasant odor.
Hounds of various ages and sizes rushed up to Gerrard and he gave them each a pat before telling them to sit. They did, looking up at him like an adoring chorus about to burst into song.
He had been a favorite of the dogs when he was a boy, too, no doubt because he gave them ample attention of the sort he rarely received from anyone save Eua, a serving woman who had been his nurse, and who had praised and spoiled him.
Indeed, the hall was so little changed, Celeste half expected to see Sir Blane seated on the dais, with his cruel features and even crueler sneer while he berated his sons.
She removed her cloak as a maidservant appeared from the entrance to the kitchen. The woman was young and not unattractive, slender and with chestnut-brown hair, the sort of girl a parent would have kept far from the hall of Dunborough when Sir Blane and his eldest son, Broderick, were alive.
More surprising still, the maidservant merely nodded when Gerrard asked her to bring refreshments. She didn’t blush or smile at him as she took Celeste’s cloak.
Not that it mattered to her if Gerrard was carrying on with a servant. If he were, he would be no different from most men of his rank. As for the other things she’d heard about him, rumors were often exaggerations, if not outright lies.
And poor Esmerelda might have been mistaken about where she was to meet him, or if she was to meet him at all. Given her own youthful infatuation with the handsome, merry Gerrard, Celeste could easily imagine a girl misinterpreting his words or intentions.
“Now then, this is better, isn’t it?” he said with a familiar smile as they sat on finely carved chairs on the dais and the maidservant brought wine, bread and cheese. “Please, have some wine. It’s very good. I’m working my way through Father’s cellar.”
Celeste accepted the wine and took a grateful sip. It was indeed very good wine, which meant it was a hundred times better than anything she’d had at the convent. The mother superior kept all the best wine for herself or her favorites. The rest got much cheaper fare.
“It’s been a long time,” Gerrard said after he took a drink of wine, fixing his brown-eyed gaze upon her in a way that made her grateful for the nun’s habit she wore.
“I heard about your father and Broderick,” she said, knowing better than to offer him any sympathy for their demise.
Gerrard gave a little shrug with his right shoulder, as he used to do when they were children. “Then I suppose you know Roland is lord of Dunborough now.”
She was surprised at how calm he sounded. “Yes, I did hear that.”
“And that Roland is married?”
“Yes.”
She had been even more surprised by that news. Audrey had often said Roland would have to marry a statue to find a wife as cold and stern as he, and Celeste had not disagreed.
“He’s not here at the moment. He’s at his wife’s estate recovering from the wounds he got fighting Audrey’s killer.”
Gerrard didn’t sound overly concerned. Nevertheless, she remembered what he’d said at the house, about Audrey’s bodyguard nearly killing Roland. She’d been too overwhelmed by all that he had told her to inquire about Roland’s state then. “So he will recover?”
“Yes. I’m garrison commander in charge of Dunborough until he returns.”
Being the temporary lord was better than nothing, she supposed, although she nevertheless found it hard to believe that Gerrard could be so apparently accepting of his lower status.
“Things are better between us now,” he added.
Much better, it seemed. “So Roland won’t be angry if you drink all the best wine.”
Gerrard laughed softly. As much as she’d remembered, she had forgotten the sound of his laughter and the way it seemed to brighten everything around him.
“It would take years to do that,” he assured her, “even if I drank as much as I used to.”
She had heard that he drank to excess, among other sins, so that was not a surprise. The surprise was that he was willing to admit it.
“Enough of what’s happened here in Dunborough,” he said. “I have some questions of my own to ask.”
The last thing she wanted was to be interrogated by Gerrard. It would be worse than facing the mother superior at her most irate.
Celeste got to her feet. “If you don’t mind, Gerrard, I’m quite tired and would like to rest.”
A flash of irritation crossed his leanly handsome features and she waited for a protest.
Instead, he rose and called to the maidservant who had brought the refreshments. “Lizabet, show Sister Celeste to Roland’s chamber.”
He turned back to regard her with those brilliant dark brown eyes. “Or are you Sister Something Else?”
She kept her composure and silently prayed for forgiveness for the lie she was about to tell, along with her other recent sins. “I am Sister Augustine now.”
“Until later, then, Sister.”
“Yes, until later,” she agreed as she turned to follow the maidservant to the stairs leading to the family chambers.
Despite her answer, though, she had already decided she would not be joining Gerrard in the hall later, or at any time. When she was with him, the past crowded in on her, the memories fresh and vivid, both the good ones and the bad.
Lizabet passed the first door. “That was Sir Blane’s,” she said, her voice hushed as if she thought someone would overhear.
“And that was Broderick’s, the late lord’s eldest son,” she continued as they passed another. “I suppose you heard what happened to him? Killed by a woman! Sir Roland’s wife’s cousin. I can hardly imagine it.”
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