Beauty's Curse (19 page)

“Thank ye, my lady.” Will clutched her hand.

She pulled it back, her head tilted. “What did I say to you about grabbing?”

“I wanted to kiss your fingers in thanks,” he blustered.

“Ask, then.” She kept her hand at her side. “Nicely. Use some of that charm your lord exudes.”

Will exhaled, but then asked, “My lady, may I have the honor of your hand?”

“Put a friendly smile on your face,” Galiana instructed. “You look like a hungry wolf instead of a charming young man.”

Shuffling his feet, he did as told. “May I?” He bowed low, his palm up with his fingers outstretched.

Dipping her head, Galiana simpered and placed the tips of her fingers over his.

He brought them to his mouth for a kiss.

“Don't touch the skin with those mangy lips, boy,” Sir Godfrey bellowed.

Will jumped back, his face red with mortification.

Galiana stepped forward, hoping she hadn't just made the situation worse for Will by embarrassing him in front of the older knight.

But Godfrey just rubbed his chin speculatively and suggested, “A lighter hand this time, Will, and the kiss needs to be just above the knuckles without landing. Took me years to master it,” he added.

She smiled her appreciation for the older knight. “Shall we try again? Just once, since we need to locate Sir Robert.”

Will made a significant improvement on the next try, and Sir Godfrey promised a few extra lessons in how to be a chivalrous knight.

“Can't find Robbie? I know I saw him this morning.” Sir Godfrey led the way to the hall. “Once I was on me feet.”

“You did?” Galiana breathed a sigh of relief. “So the chances of him being lost in the snow are slim.”

“I was worried,” Will admitted. “He was on duty to shovel to the stables, but he never did.”

“He's probably sleepin' off the sick, boy”—Sir Godfrey clamped his hand down on Will's shoulder—“in private somewhere.”

“Have you asked Sir Franz if he's seen him?” Galiana asked Will as they reached the open area of the great hall. The benches and the tables had all been cleaned and stacked to the side so that she could scrub the stone floor.

Dry, clean, fragrant rushes had been spread, and the windows had been flung open. The sick stench was not even a lingering aroma.

“Sir Franz”—Godfrey chuckled—“has been wooing that old dame for a bed.”

“Franz and Dame Bertha?” Will choked. “Together?”

Galiana covered her mouth with her fingers to stop an indelicate snicker.

“Not like that,” Godfrey cuffed Will's ear. “Fer slee-pin'. That's why I'd wager Robert is off on some vacant pallet snorin' and—”

He broke off, realizing what he was saying. His dark brown eyes widened, and his cheeks got even ruddier. “My apologies,” Godfrey bowed.

Will broke into loud laughter.

Galiana reasoned that the pedestal Will had been placing the older knight on had just crumbled beneath the weight of reality. “You are most likely correct, Sir Godfrey. I'll ask one of my men to look.” She winked at Will, then noticed Dame Bertha slumped before the large fire.

“Excuse me, sirs,” she said and went to see how the old woman fared.

The manor hall was clean, the kitchens sparkled, the laundry was almost finished, and she knew if she sat down now to join Dame Bertha for a rest, she might never get back on her feet.

“Ye look beat, my lady,” the old woman said with a tired smile. She gestured to her embroidery hoop, which lay on the floor at her feet. “I thought ta do some mendin', but I couldn't keep me eyes open.”

“You've worked hard today. Thank you.” The cushion on the three-legged stool beckoned to her, but Galiana resisted the luxury.

“Me? Ye've done the work of five maids, and a few of the knights, as well.”

Gali laughed softly, pleased that her efforts had been noticed. “Once everyone stopped puking, it was just a matter of cleaning up.”

“What finally did the trick?”

“A decoction of mallow, licorice, and mint. I found the recipe on a scrap of vellum at the back of Celestia's book, praise be. For certes, our people missed my sister and my grandmother this day.”

She'd also found a new recipe calling for clary that supposedly helped clear vision. Galiana was looking forward to sharing it with Rourke.

“Ye fared well, my lady. That is what they'll remember,” the woman said kindly.

Galiana discreetly stretched her leg muscles as she stood enjoying the warmth of the flames in contrast with the gust of fresh winter air from the open windows. The combination was cozy, yet kept her from feeling closed in.

“Have you asked around? Does anybody remember seeing”—she lowered her voice—“the twins?”

Dame Bertha shook her head. “Cook and her scullions said some of Lord Rourke's men were in the kitchens yesterday.”

“Someone added valerian to the spiced blackberry wine—I'd made no secret I wanted some.” Galiana reached back to rub the sore muscle at her nape. “Not enough to poison me, aye? But I slept sound, for certes.”

The old woman's mouth thinned, and her knee trembled. “I brought it to ye. Ye don't think I did it, my lady?”

“Nay.” Galiana said dismissively before peering at the woman, who had a sudden case of the jitters. “Did you?”

“Nay! Of course I would never do a thing like that, my lady, I've known ye since ye were a babe, fresh to the world.”

Gali tilted her head to the side and opted for the cushion after all. Intuition wasn't needed to see Dame Bertha had a secret. “Well, you've obviously thought this through. Who do you think put the valerian in the spiced wine?”

Robert, Father Jonah, and both the boys—missing. Gali stared into the fire as if the answers were hidden amongst the dancing orange flames.

“I don't know, but Cook swore it was one of the big, dark knights of Lord Rourke's; she doesn't know their names, aye?”

“That would leave out Jamie, who has unmistakable ginger hair, and Franz, who can't be called ‘large' on a good day.”

Dame Bertha leaned in and whispered, “I've got Sir Franz in me bed.”

Galiana, grateful to all the saints that she'd been forewarned, was able to nod in serious contemplation instead of laughing at the poor woman. “Aye?” She managed with a straight face.

“He was askin' me all sorts of questions about ye, and I heard him talkin' to our knights and the bailiff, too. Even cozened that old priest, afore he took off.”

A chill scattered across her shoulders, and she asked, “Questions about me?”

“Aye. I thought it was best if we knew where to find that one—he's a charmer, but as wily as a fox, to my mind.”

“I agree. Good thinking, Dame Bertha. Uh”—Galiana tapped her finger against her knee—“what did he ask? And what, pray tell, did you share with him?”

The old woman's face paled. “He was sneaky, my lady. Just talkin' with me, about nothin' at all, and then he'd ask a question—like, did ye ever have a betrothed before? And”—she swallowed hard—“why ye ain't been married yet.”

“Was it you who told him about Celestia? That she'd been forced to wed?” Her instincts about the Frenchman had been correct. He bore watching—but whose side was he on? Lord Rourke's? Or his own?

Dame Bertha exhaled with shame. “Aye. He caught me unawares, my lady.”

“But you didn't tell him that Ned had a twin, did you?”

“No! None of us would give up the boys, even after what they did here.”

Guilt on her family's behalf led her to get to her feet. “Thank you for telling me. I'll be wary. I just need to know one more thing. Did Cook, or the other servants, see”—she cleared her throat over the lump forming in it—“the boys add the bark to the stew?”

“No. But who else could it have been?”

Everyone in the manor, besides Rourke and his men, knew of the Montehues' love of jests. Rourke's knights had known she'd ordered the spiced blackberry wine. Well, to be fair, Ned had heard her order it, too. But why would he want her asleep? To keep her safe from her wedding night?

Her head throbbed at the direct center betwixt her eyes, and she quickly pressed her fingers against the spot. Stress brought wrinkles, and since she had no magic but only beauty to offer, she had to care about such things.

Although this day's work had been the hardest she'd ever done, it had been rewarding. Not magical, and not spiritual—but satisfying in its own way.

Galiana decided to have one more word with Cook, on the off chance that the woman, or her helpers, would remember who else had been in the kitchen.

Rourke fumed.

“If ye don't spew some of that fury, my friend, ye're like to melt all the snow in the fields. Which would cause a landslide, and we might not survive—and I, Rourke, have dreams of retiring someday.”

“I'll vent my anger on the witch who deserves it!” His eyesight was murky still, but he welcomed a world in black and white and gray over a world he couldn't see at all. His vision matched his mood.

All her talk of honor and how her family didn't view deceit as an asset … She was the champion of lies. He stomped behind Jamie, careful to keep his strides the same.

“She was protecting her family; ye would do the same,” Jamie pointed out.

“I thought I was being haunted. That night someone drugged your ale? But now I'd bet it was the two of those damnable boys playing one of their ill-gotten jests.” He remembered his fear—a feeling he rarely admitted—as he'd thought his legs were being bitten by dragon's teeth. What had those rapscallions used? Hot oil? Liquid wax?

Some of his delusions had been due to fever and medicine, but the rest to those troublesome twins—he'd stake his life on it.

“Aye, those buggers will owe me once I catch up with 'em.” Jamie stopped outside the outer gate to the manor. “Never mess with a man's drink, by God.”

“Who's in the gatehouse?” Rourke squinted, but saw a mass of gray. He'd never been to the front of the manor.

“Nobody.”

“Why the hell isn't one of our men out here?”

“Too bleedin' cold, that's why,” Jamie barked back. “We've been snowed in, Rourke, and unless ye've a sled and a pack of dogs, we are safe.”

“Two boys and a priest just managed to leave, and if they can leave, then, Jamie, skilled knights can get in.” Apprehension sat on his shoulder like a gyrfalcon, just waiting to tug the flesh from his dying bones.

He scrubbed at his forehead.

It would be time to tell Galiana a bit more of the truth, which was so fantastical as to be a story. Almost as silly as her claim to be descended from Boadicea. Who could trace their lineage so far? Aye, never mind the fact Boadicea was simply a legend, a symbol of a woman rising against the Romans and leading her people to victory; a temporary victory. Not real.

Jamie cursed fluently in three languages before settling back into the old Scots tongue he and Rourke favored so that their words would be secret. “I'll send Will, then Robert, to do a turn. But they can't stay more than an hour a shift, Rourke, else they'll fall into a sleep they'll never wake from.”

“Give them an extra fur, then, but this manor and this woman need our protection. She'll not have the protection of my name, since the priest fled, and that makes her a viable prize.”

“Bed her.”

Aye, I'd like to do that, Rourke thought as he followed Jamie to the manor door. “I can't. Not now. It's the legal binding the prince wants. Her father's men, her father's coin—she doesn't need her maidenhead to be a bartering tool.”

Jamie stopped and faced Rourke, shooting a hand out to grip Rourke by the upper arm. In an old Welsh dialect, he asked, “You're certain you want to marry her? You know you can ignore the prince, and wait to see if Constance will need a husband, just as you were doing with Lady Magdalene. King William wants the throne of England under his command—his pride demands retribution for that damn treaty he was forced to sign to save his people.”