Halloween Knight. Tori Phillips
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words and Mortimer’s sudden levity made Mark uneasy. “Are you a conjurer who knows the secrets of men’s hearts?” he asked lightly.
“Nay, take no offense, friend. I am no wizard. We two are alike in our thoughts, and so I know yours as well as my own.”
Bile rose in Mark’s throat. Be thankful you do not read my mind this very instant. “And what thoughts of mine are the twins of yours?”
Leaning across the table, Mortimer whispered, “To see the Cavendish wench dead and these estates back in the hands of upright men such as ourselves.”
Mark’s breath caught in his throat. An icy chill ran down his spine. This devil couldn’t mean he would kill sweet Belle! “Is she near death?” he forced himself to ask.
Mortimer chuckled. The sound was far from mirthful. “Who knows?”
God shield us, Belle! I hope you have thought of a clever plan or else we’ll both be crow’s meat ere the week is out.
Mark fiddled through the onerous dinner with little appetite. On the other hand, Mortimer and his vile sister enjoyed the various courses with gluttonous delight. Griselda’s table manners alone were enough to turn Mark’s stomach, while thoughts of poor Belle starving in a cold garret tore his heart. Tonight he would bring her a real feast—and hopefully talk some sense into that pretty head of hers. As soon as the last of the stewed apples had been removed, Mark rose from his seat. Griselda clamped herself to his side.
“Would you care to hear me sing, my lord?” She giggled. “Or do you have other pleasures in mind to while away such a gloomy afternoon?”
She is bold as burnished brass and terrifying as a witch met at the crossroads. After years of pursuing the weaker sex, Mark discovered that he did not enjoy the role of the prey. Alas, turnabout is fair play. “I fear I am prone to headaches when confined indoors.”
Her claws reached for him. “Then I will soothe your brow.”
He ducked away from her. “Nay, saucy puddleduck. My thanks for your concern but a ride in the fresh air will clear my malady.”
Griselda glanced at the arched window that dominated the hall. Wind-driven rain lashed at the glass panes. “Tis near to drowning out there, my lord. You will catch your death in this weather.”
Tis far safer in the midst of the storm than inside this charnel house. He pried her hands from his arm. “Bertrum!” he shouted down the length of the hall. “Quit lollygagging! Saddle our horses at once!”
Kitt’s blue eyes widened. “Now, my lord?” he ventured.
Mark sidestepped another one of Griselda’s amorous attacks. “This instant or twill be your hide nailed to the door!”
Kitt muttered something under his breath as he scuttled down the wide stairway toward the courtyard. Mark all but ran after him.
Within the half-hour, the two were riding through the familiar woods that surrounded Bodiam Castle. Though the rain pelted his face and chilled him through his sodden cloak, Mark felt alive and free for the first time in twenty-four hours. If it was not for that hard-headed minx in the northwest tower, he would keep riding all the way to London.
Thinking of Belle curbed his enjoyment. She hated confinement. Mark recalled the time years ago when she had been locked in the buttery for some household transgression. She had screamed and kicked the stout door for several soul-wrenching hours. When Kat finally released her, she was horrified by the sight of Belle’s bleeding hands and feet, but the child had not shed one tear of pain or remorse. With her head held high, she limped up the stairway to her secret refuge in the dovecote. There she had stayed until long past nightfall. Afterward, no one ever mentioned the incident, nor had Belle ever again been confined against her will—until now. Like an exotic wild bird, she wasted away inside the cold damp walls of her cage, yet she refused the freedom he offered her.
Mark tightened his grip on the reins. While he had ridden south on Brandon’s errand the rich estate that Belle’s father had promised the land-poor nobleman had filled his mind. Now that he had seen Belle’s piteous condition and met her jailer, Mark’s thoughts turned to revenge. He longed to strike Mortimer dead and lay Bodiam and all its possessions once again at the feet of their rightful owner. Patience, he counseled himself as he ducked under a dripping bough. We are too few for a frontal attack but there are alternatives to a fight. We must use all our cunning—and soon before Mortimer plays his end game.
Mark expected to find Jobe cold, wet and in a foul mood in his hideaway. Instead, the delicious aroma of roasting meat greeted Mark and Kitt when they dismounted in front of the old woodcutter’s croft. Inside, Jobe had a small but cheerful fire crackling in the cobblestone hearth. Several fat rabbits, skinned and skewered, cooked over the flames. Jobe’s immense presence filled the small room.
“Welcome, meus amigos!” he roared when Mark pushed open the rough-planked door. “Your dinner is ready.”
Kitt shook the raindrops from his cap. “How did you know we were coming?” he asked in surprise.
Jobe only chuckled, laid a finger against the side of his nose and winked in reply.
Mark unpinned his cloak. “Jobe has the gift of second sight, Kitt. I do not know how he does it; I only know that he can sense the future.”
“Aye,” the man agreed, “Just as I knew that the lady would not accompany you this day—though why she won’t, I do not know.”
Kitt regarded the African with increased respect. “Most marvelous wonderful! Can you teach me how to do that, Jobe?”
He chuckled again. “You must be born the seventh son of a sorcerer in the dark of the moon as I was.”
“Oh.” The boy sighed. “My father is only a knight.”
Mark warmed himself in front of the fire. “Tell me, wise friend, do you see a happy ending to this mad enterprise of ours?”
Jobe did not answer at once. He removed the rabbits from the fire and deftly jointed them on a large wooden board. He passed the succulent portions first to Mark then to Kitt before he replied. “I see devil darkness and brilliant stars falling from the skies,” he intoned in a deep-timbered voice. “I see misery, greed, yet laughter and…” Pausing, he stared at Mark.
The hairs on the back of Mark’s neck quivered a warning. “What?” He said a quick prayer that Jobe had not foreseen his death.
The African’s smile split his broad face. “Amor, meu amigo!” His laughter rolled up from deep within his chest. “The goddess of love will enfold you in her silver snares!”
Mark shook his head firmly. “Nay, your prophecy has gone awry this time. I am not the marrying kind. There are still too many flowers in the garden for me to savor.”
Jobe only laughed again, then addressed Kitt. “You will see anon, little one. Mark my words.”
Kitt looked from one man to the other then swallowed. “Can you…? I mean, do you see into my future, Jobe?”
The giant placed a large hand on Kitt’s golden head and looked deeply into the boy’s bright eyes. At length he nodded. “I see a strong heart and many adventures. You will drink life to the dregs.”
Kitt blinked with confusion but dared not question Jobe any further. With a grin, Mark passed his wineskin to the boy. “Do not pretend to understand what Jobe says. I never do, yet somehow things seem to happen as he says.” He narrowed his eyes. “But not falling in love, Jobe. I flatly refuse to do that.”
The African only shook his head. “Tis too late, meu amigo. You have already done so.”
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