Claire Delacroix (137 page)

“Bronwyn is not without influence on her own fate,” Rowan dared to suggest, earning Nicholas’s hearty laugh.

“And she is her mother’s daughter for all of that,” he declared, chucking his daughter affectionately beneath her chin before he sobered. “When I think of what might have happened to you …” His voice faded and Bronwyn kissed his cheek hastily.

“I am fine,” she murmured, and looked away.

Nicholas frowned briefly, then recalled his manners. “I thank you, sir, I thank you a thousand times, and welcome you as my guest. Before you leave this hall, I shall see you compensated richly for the wondrous gift you have brought me.”

Nicholas wrapped an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and hugged her tightly against him. “The greatest gift of all,” he murmured, and kissed his daughter’s temple. “We shall have a fine celebration this night!”

Bronwyn flushed scarlet, her gaze meeting Rowan’s for a heady moment before she stepped away. “Where is Mother?”

Nicholas rolled his eyes. “With the foals, of course. Three this year, and you missed the arrival of them all.”

Bronwyn’s smile looked tight. “I would excuse myself.”

“Go! She will be thrilled.” Nicholas’s gaze followed Bronwyn’s course, a proud smile curving his lips. “I cannot believe it,” he murmured, then flicked a bright glance to Rowan. “Indeed, I feel a decade younger on this day, thanks to you! I am certain ’tis no small tale that brings her back here, nor you by her side.”

“We but made a bargain,” Rowan said smoothly, wishing he could pursue the lady and learn what precisely troubled her. “ ’Twas naught.”

“Aye? And what was your wager? If she promised you coin, I shall see you paid this very moment!” Nicholas flung out his hands. “There are not enough riches in all of Christendom to compensate for this!”

“Nay.” Rowan shook his head. “The lady kept her bargain herself. She is most resourceful. The stakes are of no issue at all.”

Marco cleared his throat, reminding the other men that he was still at hand. “Unless she granted something that was not hers to grant.”

Rowan found the man’s tone and his insinuation annoying beyond all. Bronwyn could choose what she would tell of their adventures, but truly, whatever indignity she had borne, she had borne with grace. And whatever she had granted to Rowan, he would not have sullied by foul rumor.

Rowan turned to meet Marco’s assessing brown gaze and held it stubbornly. “The lady granted me a tale, no more than that, you may be assured.”

Marco arched a brow but held his tongue.

“A tale?” Nicholas asked.

“Aye, I sought a bride in this land.” Rowan shrugged, seeing no need to provide details. “She told me of Irish women in exchange for my returning her home.”

“Did she tell of herself?” Marco demanded tightly.

Rowan flicked a glance to that man. “Nay. She confessed that she was betrothed.”

“You must not mind Marco,” Nicholas interjected smoothly. “I fear that when Bronwyn fled, he took the matter personally.”

“And who could not?” Marco said tightly.

“I do not understand.”

Nicholas smiled. “Marco was Bronwyn’s betrothed.”

“Indeed.” Rowan looked to that man with newly assessing eyes. Though Marco was not foul to look upon, he was markedly older than Bronwyn, of an age with her father. And his manner was less than appealing.

Indeed, he could well understand Bronwyn’s choice.

“Did she not tell you?” Marco challenged. “Or did she lie?”

“Nay, Bronwyn spoke little of herself.” Rowan reined in his temper with difficulty. Indeed, he managed a cool smile for this man who thought so little of the incomparable woman he had been pledged to wed. “I expect that any who truly knew Bronwyn would know that she has no gift for deceit.”

“I fear my old friend was wounded by my daughter’s protest,” Nicholas said quietly. “Truly, Marco, one could misinterpret your manner.”

Marco smiled and took a deep breath. “I apologize,
chevalier.
This has not been easy, believing it my fault that my friend lost his sole daughter.”

“I can well imagine that.”

“Aye.” Marco’s gaze trailed across the yard in Bronwyn’s wake. “ ’Tis most reassuring that she is safely home.”

“Indeed.” Rowan turned his smile on Bronwyn’s father, noting again how closely that man observed him. “There is but one obligation that will undoubtedly be yours as a result of this, and I pray ’tis not an onerous one.”

Marco sniffed, but Rowan continued undeterred, gesturing to the maid behind him. “Bronwyn felt compassion for the fate of this woman, who was enslaved. Marika has been Bronwyn’s maid. I pray the burden of supporting her does not trouble you overmuch. She speaks only her own tongue, though she and Bronwyn have developed a strong bond.”

Marika seemed to understand that her fate rested in Nicholas’s, hands, for she dropped to her knees before him. She tried to kiss his fingers, but he would not permit it, so she kissed his shoe.

“Child!” Nicholas cried. “Marika!” She looked up at him fearfully, but he smiled and offered his hands. “Come
to your feet,” he urged with a gesture. “We have no slaves here and you shall not be treated as one.”

He took her hands in his, kindly in his every gesture, and shook his head as he urged her to her feet. “Look at this, you have been hungry so long that there is naught upon your bones. Do not tremble, Marika, all will be well.” Nicholas smiled deliberately and the tiny woman seemed slightly more at ease.

“Cook!” Nicholas called, and a blond man robust and tanned appeared, ducking around the side of the house. He carried a basket heavily laden with greens. His thickened midriff hinted to Rowan that the fare might be very good in this hall.

“This is Marika,” Nicholas supplied, his voice low and even. Marika bowed slightly, apparently understanding. “My daughter believed her to be in need of a home like ours. She will not understand your words, but try to reassure her, perhaps with some of your fine broth. She looks hungry to me.”

The cook stepped closer, his blue gaze sweeping over the tiny woman. “Aye, and lonely, my lord,” he amended.

“Can you find some labor for her in the kitchen?” Nicholas asked, and the cook waved in reassurance.

“Of course, sir. There is always labor for another pair of hands.” He smiled slowly, his manner that of a very gentle man, then beckoned to Marika. He made an eating motion and she bit her lip, clearly tempted. She looked to Nicholas, who nodded, then hesitantly stepped toward the cook.

A woman’s delighted squeal echoed in the distance, the three men turning as one to look. Nicholas grinned outright when a woman with blond braids streaming past her hips burst into the yard, Bronwyn tucked fast against her side. The two woman shared similar coloring and beguiling smiles, though the one with the braids was markedly older.

“Niccolo, you sorry wretch!” she cried laughingly. “How could you not have told me sooner?”

“How
could
I have told you sooner, Adhara?” that man retorted. “I have only just learned the truth myself.”

“You should have shouted it from the hills,” Bronwyn’s mother charged. Adhara pivoted and raised her arms skyward, shouting with glee. “My child, my Bronwyn, my own precious babe is home!”

Nicholas started to laugh as servants suddenly poured from the hall to see the truth of it themselves. Vassals came from the village, their eyes alight with curiosity, then smiled and shouted to others to join them. Young boys and girls came from the fields, the horses trotted closer to look, and soon the yard was filled with the sounds of laughter and love.

Bronwyn was home, and everyone was rejoicing.

’Twas nigh time for Rowan to go. He told himself that he lingered only because he so loved a merry celebration.

But even Rowan knew that to be a lie.

arika watched the man escorting her, unable to decide why he inspired her trust so readily. He had kindly eyes, and he moved with such restraint that naught he did was alarming. There was a tranquility about his manner that coaxed her to relax in his presence.

His low voice was soothing, though, indeed, she could not understand what he said. She had grown accustomed to that, and found herself listening to the rise and fall of his words.

’Twas like music, the way this man spoke. Perhaps that was what entranced her, for Marika dearly loved music and had heard precious little of it of late.

She followed him around the building that was clearly Ibernia’s home, marvelling at the gentle green beauty of the hills on all sides.

“Well, now, you would be hungry after all the journeying you have been about and no wonder ’tis.” The man’s words flowed over her uncomprehended. He opened a gate and gestured Marika through it, as if she were a fine lady, not a peasant enslaved and stolen across the seas.

She found herself smiling at his gallantry, then caught her breath at the array of herbs and flowers growing in the enclosed space. He whistled and she glanced back, watching as he deliberately fastened the latch. He gave her a sharp look, tapping the latch, and Marika understood.

She was never to leave the gate unlatched. She echoed the locking gesture with her hands and nodded, winning a fleeting smile from the man.

“Have to keep the gate fastened, as you can see, for my lady’s horses are nibblers of the worst sort. Lost nigh all of the elecampane last month, if you can believe the fact of it, and who would have been guessing that a horse would savor the taste of elecampane upon his tongue!”

He waved broadly to the hills beyond the garden walls and Marika noted the number of horses grazing in the meadow. She had no eye for horseflesh, but their coats were glossy with good health.

“Cursed stupid beasts they are, perhaps they do not taste at all, for, indeed, they trample every single thing flat in their haste to make a meal of what they should not be eating.”

He bent then and with gentle fingers lifted a snapped blossom. The tiny blue flower was trodden upon and he clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

“Borage,” Marika said, naming the flower in her own tongue before she thought.

The cook looked up with surprise. “You know this plant then, do you?”

’Twas obvious what he asked, and Marika was suddenly anxious to prove her usefulness to this household. She repeated the name of the plant, mimicked the making of a tisane and drinking it deeply. Then she straightened, giving as good an impression as she could of a knight emboldened by the brew. “Valour,” she insisted, and tapped her heart. “Borage is for courage.”

Her companion chuckled and named the plant in his tongue. She repeated his word carefully, taking several tries to get it right. She knew when her pronunciation was correct, for he smiled.

He straightened then, his gaze drifting over the garden as he visibly saddened. “Reminds me of my Anna, it does, every time I am crossing the threshold to this place. Loved her plants, did my Anna, though she did not know what to do with the half of them.” His voice dropped low and he fingered a blossom absently, sorrow in his blue eyes. “She loved the flowers so.”

Marika did not know what had happened, though she feared she had done something to offend him. Quickly she scanned the garden and found another plant with which she was familiar. He had been pleased that she knew the borage; perhaps ’twould work again.

“Feverfew!” The plant heavily laden with tiny daisylike blooms could have been naught else. “For the headache.” Marika tapped her temples emphatically, rolled her eyes at the feigned pain, then pretended to nibble the leaves of the feverfew plant. She blinked, as if her headache cleared, spread her hands, then looked to him.

“Truly?” He strolled closer and eyed the plant. “Indeed, I had no thought of its usefulness, for surely ’tis a foul-tasting plant and I would never put it into a stew.” He made to seize a handful of leafs but Marika quickly stopped him, deliberately counting three into his palm. She gestured that he could have no more.

Understanding dawned on his features. “Ah! ’Tis of import how much is consumed. Aye, there are many a plant beneficial in small doses and less than beneficial in greater. That foxglove now, I know well its charms and its danger.”

He pointed to a tall bloom Marika did not know and tapped his heartbeat. He indicated a tiny measure, then fluttered his hand against his breast as if his pulse raced. He marked a larger measure, then pretended to freeze in shock before toppling to the ground. His tongue was hanging out and his eyes wide open in a parody of death.

’Twas not a reminder Marika needed. She nodded once and turned away, haunted by the memory of her murdered baby, not a month old and stolen away from her. Bile still rose in her throat at the memory of the blood, so much blood from such a tiny child.

Her babe was dead and she was alone as she had never been alone before. To be sure, Marika had been alone even within her village, but that was naught compared to this. She had not been inclined to make a life among those who had shunned her for bearing a child without a spouse, even in this new land.

But she would never cease to mourn her child. At least they two might have faced the others together—if the babe had been granted a chance to survive.