Beauty's Curse (23 page)

Rourke climbed the slope of tightly packed snow behind Galiana's shed. Just as the lady had said, there was a window and, sure enough, it was broken.

A shirt waved from the top of the window like a banner on a tourney lance.

“Robert?” Rourke called as he reached the sill. Had his knight gotten lost in the storm? Had he been hoping for someone to rescue him? If Galiana was right, then it shouldn't be too late.

His gloves protected him from the shards of glass as he pulled himself up. “We've got you, man!”

Silence reverberated as the men behind him, holding torches and shovels, waited to hear Robert's voice.

It was dark outside; he knew that. Balancing carefully on his belly, Rourke realized it was just as dark inside the shed. He was living in a world of shadows, when they needed clarity. Mayhap it would have been better to send Jamie. He let his eyes adjust as well as they could, and made out the small brazier and a stack of wood. Flowery smells overwhelmed his nose.

“Robert?”

There was still no answer, and the relief Rourke had felt at seeing the shirt vanished like a melting snowflake.

Jamie pulled himself up the slope and peered inside. “Can't see a thing,” he pronounced.

“You either? We'll have to go in.”

“I'll go. You can lower me over.”

“Nay, too dangerous. This will be the only time you'll hear me say this, but—”

“I'm stronger than ye? Everybody knows that,” Jamie chuckled. “So you're over then?”

“Wait until I'm training again, and then I'll knock you arse over kettle. I can't see what's in there—looks like a bunch of weeds hanging upside down, and pots and such.”

“What's this place again?”

Rourke slung a leg over the sill, brushing away the big chunks of glass. “Galiana works on her perfumes in here.”

“It smells,” Jamie said. “Gives me a bloody headache.”

“Don't tell her that. She gets touchy about her works of art.” Rourke slipped his other leg over and allowed Jamie to lever him down on the inside of the shed. Though the scents were even stronger inside, they reminded Rourke of spring.

He liked it.

“Ye'll have to jump now. Just let go. On three—”

Rourke dropped to the ground, his knees bent so that he didn't break a damn leg, on top of everything else. With his luck, he'd be stuck in here until the snow thawed.

“Why do ye do that? Hmm? I say three, that's when ye go—not before,” Jamie complained.

“Stop whining.” Rourke held out his hands, getting used to making out shadows in the dark. Shelves were stuffed with drying herbs or vials, and it looked like a wind had come through to scatter everything.

He looked down before he stepped ahead, not wanting to trip over anything. There was a large table in the center of the room. Lattice drying racks separated the rectangular room into many different partitions.

“Well?” Jamie called down.

“It's a mess in here,” Rourke said. He stepped on something dried, and then a rush of crushed lavender captivated his unsuspecting senses. He choked, and peered behind the next partition.

He was grateful for the lavender, as it blocked the smell of blood.

“I found Robert,” he shouted.

“Is he sick?”

“No, Jamie. He's dead.”

Galiana's hand itched with the need to slap somebody—preferably the lying Layla. The impudent kitchen wench hadn't even bothered to hide the coin Sir Robert had given her, although her confession of what she'd done in exchange for the coin had taken longer, sapping the very last of Galiana's patience.

Layla didn't have so much as a sniffle—she'd been lying about being ill, as well as spinning tales about the money being a gift from her mother.

Once Galiana had managed to get the truth—that Sir Robert had paid Layla for putting the purgative in the stew—then it was another matter of listening to an entire litany of sins. For certes, Layla would no longer be a house servant for the Montehue family, Gali huffed as she searched for the bailiff.

The wench deserved time in the stocks!

But since they were all snowed in, Galiana would have to content herself with locking Layla in the small room above the kitchen. It was perfect: no window, and it could be locked from the outside only.

Layla's list of crimes had included pilfering bottles of good French wine, some of Galiana's old kerchiefs, and the lady Deirdre's ivory comb. It had not included why Sir Robert had wanted the inhabitants of the manor retching their guts out, and Layla wasn't the kind of girl to ask questions when there was gain in it for her.

Disgusted, Galiana was having difficulty remembering to take ladylike steps instead of stomping across the great hall. She spied the bailiff and was about to call his name when the front door of the manor burst open and Rourke, Jamie, and all of the knights not on duty spilled in.

Her first thought went to the floor. The floor she had cleaned three times already today would now once again be ruined by men's muddy, snow-caked boots.

Gali's next thought had more to do with how Rourke would react when he found out Robert was behind the poisoning. His warning of danger came back to her, and she couldn't help but think he wouldn't be very surprised.

Rourke exuded charm, but underneath it all, he trusted nobody.

Except Jamie. What would it be like to be the recipient of such trust? Her body warmed.

“Lady Galiana!” Rourke yelled as he strode across the soon-to-be sodden rushes. For all the care he gave the work she'd done, she may as well have let the dogs loose.

She sighed and arranged her face into what she hoped was a calm expression. A lady never allowed a harsh tone or a bitter look to betray her dissatisfaction.

“I'm here, my lord. You needn't shout.”

“I'll bloody well shout. Are you not done with your lies? How else would Robert have known about the drying shed if not from your lying lips?”

Galiana stepped back as he fired questions at her like arrows. But she was annoyed enough to stop after two steps, then lift her chin and square her shoulders.

“I want that man brought up on charges.”

Rourke came to a halt, his handsome face pale beneath his golden complexion. “What man?”

“Sir Robert,” she said in a prim voice.

Jamie, ever Rourke's shadow, barked, “Answer him, lass! Did ye send Robbie to the shed on purpose?”

Galiana briefly lowered her lashes before she skewered Jamie with a gaze. “Nay, I did not. And furthermore, he will not be allowed one foot in this manor—not unless it is to be locked in the solar, as you did my knights, for absolutely no wrongdoing.”

She trembled as she gave her order, but she would not back down from it.

“Impossible.” Rourke carelessly brushed the droplets in his hair from the melted snow to the floor.

Gritting her teeth and smiling over the pain shooting through her jaw, she asked, “Why in Saint Mary's name not? Your man is guilty of poisoning the entire manor—well, with my kitchen wench's aid, but I will handle that issue. I demand he be punished.”

“Methinks he's been punished enough, lass.”

Galiana's temper slipped, and she rounded on Rourke's man. “If you think I will be satisfied with your knight feeling the effects of some cold weather, think again. My father will mete out a punishment suitable for the crime done to our people.”

“Our men, meself included, sickened as well!” Jamie's shout echoed through the rafters.

“Lady Galiana—” Rourke, finally remembering his manners, spoke in a deceptively calm voice that simply spiked her own ire. “What Jamie is saying is that Robert has been murdered.”

“Murdered?” She raised her hand to her mouth, sorry that she'd yelled. “Nay, that cannot be.”

“And you were the one who suggested we look in the drying shed.” Rourke nodded his head at her as if giving her permission to confess to the foul deed.

“Murder? Here at Montehue Manor? Ridiculous! That sort of thing simply doesn't happen. It can't happen,” she explained as the room swayed around her. “My parents are away. I'm supposed to be in charge.”

“I know all of that,” Rourke said. “Now I want to know how my knight came to be missing his head.”

“Missing his head?” Galiana envisioned her sacred space, the area where she created the best perfumes with flowers and oils, pestle and mortar. “In my shed?”

“Well, almost. Lass, we don't think ye did it; we just need to know how our Robert found the place,” Jamie explained with uncharacteristic gentleness.

“I could never hurt someone.” Black spots danced before her eyes.

“Of course ye couldn't—this was a man that did this to Robbie.”

Rourke added, “Bloody mess. We'll need to shovel in through the front door. No way to get the body out the back.”

Galiana gulped down the bile rising in her throat. Blood, violence. In her beautiful shed?

“It was Layla,” she whispered. “Layla.”

“Nay, a woman wouldn't have been strong enough for what was done.” Rourke slashed his hand through the air.

“Bugger me,” Jamie shouted as he leapt toward her.

Galiana heard Rourke exhale as he asked, “What? Again?” Then her head hit the stone floor of the great hall with a loud cracking noise, and nothing else mattered at all.

Rourke cradled Galiana's bleeding head as he lifted her up the stairs. He almost tripped over the lady's long, trailing sleeve decorated with tiny seed pearls before Jamie yanked it off with a rip of fabric.

“Thank you,” Rourke said, leading the way to her bedchamber.

Dame Bertha was directly behind them, a basket of linens and bandages over her arm. “I've got the vinegar, me lord. That'll bring her 'round.”

Jamie opened the door, then shook his head.

Rourke entered, the lady in his arms. He would have put her on the bed, but he couldn't find the damn thing. Veils and silks and furs were tossed about the room as if she were a fabric merchant.

“Not tidy, eh?” Jamie chuckled. “Ye don't need a housekeeper, Rourke, so wipe that look off yer face.”

Dame Bertha set the basket down and immediately swept up an armful of cloth so that Rourke would have a place to lay Galiana down. His arms were tired, though he would never admit it.

“Ye should have let me carry her,” Jamie chided.

“Step back,” Rourke warned.

“Stubborn arse.”

Dame Bertha snickered before pretending to be shocked. Rourke decided he liked that about her.

“Can you rouse her, good woman?”

The old lady smiled and nodded, seemingly happy to do his bidding. If only his lady would be so inclined …

Rourke took a linen square from the basket and gently lifted Galiana's head. He parted the hair until he found the dark line on her pale scalp that bled sluggishly.

He removed the circlet of braided twine and the veil of thin linen, revealing two thick braids wound in curls above her ears. The rest of her hair spilled loose down her back. He applied pressure to the cloth, absently noting that her hair, though boring in color, was soft as a kitten's fur.

The sharp, pungent scent of vinegar permeated the air, and Rourke lifted his head. Dame Bertha stood armed and ready with an uncorked jar, which she handed to him.

“Pass it under her nose, quick.”

Rourke did as instructed and was satisfied to see Galiana's eyes scrunch together. For a woman who admittedly preferred beautiful smells, this would surely get her attention.

He did it again, just to see her squirm.

Her eyes popped open, and for the briefest time he thought he saw green fire, the exact brightness which could be found when burning fresh oak stumps.

The flame flickered out, and her eyes returned to their dull brown shade. He could have stared into those boring orbs for hours, waiting to see that mystical flash again.

She mesmerized him, this wren of a woman.