Claire Delacroix (68 page)

“I have never seen a servant garbed so poorly,” he commented. “Even the beggars of Paris have more to call their own.”

Deirdre’s nostrils fairly pinched shut, she inhaled so sharply. “She shall have a new kirtle.”

“Shoes and other frippery,” Burke supplied with a winning smile. “As befits a lady of the house.”

Deirdre eyed him coldly. “We shall do what we can in our reduced circumstance.”

He let his smile broaden. “Of course, ’twould be most unfitting for a lady of lineage to slumber on the kitchen hearth.”

Deirdre lifted her chin. “We have not another chamber.”

“ ’Twould be my pleasure, then, to cede the chamber granted to me to the lady’s comfort. As a man of war, I am much used to simple accommodations and shall take to the stables.”

Burke turned his smile upon the entire family. “Indeed, it does my heart good to see this trouble so readily dismissed. Perhaps there is indeed prospect of a bride at Kiltorren.”

He pivoted and made to leave the hall, then paused as if struck by a thought. “There is, of course, one other small concern.”

“What?” Deirdre snapped.

“I hear tell of an anchorite living on the perimeter of Kiltorren, an aged woman once in your employ.”

“Aye, Heloise.” Cedric stepped forward. “She is most pious.”

“Ah, and an honor ’tis to have a woman pledged to God upon your holding.”

“What of it?” Deirdre demanded.

Burke shrugged easily. “Perhaps ’tis my natural inclination to be concerned for the plight of women”—he smiled with all his charm—“but it seems to me unfitting that an elderly religious woman would be left to the wind and the rain.”

“ ’Tis her pledge, to endure adversity for her love of God,” Deirdre said coldly.

“Indeed?” Burke met Cedric’s gaze. “Though what misfortune might her demise bring upon Kiltorren if the Lord perceived that passing to be untimely? The hand of God does work in mysterious ways.”

He waited to see the flash of fear in Cedric’s eyes before stepping away. “ ’Tis not my concern, of course, and Lady Deirdre has already noted the differences between Irish estates and those French. No doubt my sensibilities are unwelcome.”

“Of course not!” Cedric boomed. “I have long been concerned for Heloise’s welfare.”

But Deirdre turned on her husband in fury. “We have no accommodation suitable for a religious.”

“We shall make do,” that man insisted with rare vigor. “The knight speaks aright and surely we have no need of further misfortune at Kiltorren.”

“We shall discuss this matter privately.” Deirdre turned a dark glance upon Burke, and he was glad he had assured Alys’s welfare first. The Lady of Kiltorren was not taking well to his interference in her plans.

Burke bowed deeply and left the hall, sensing that he had pressed his fortunes far enough this night.

Alys had scarce abandoned the storeroom in pursuit of a bit of food than Aunt appeared in the kitchen. Alys took a wary step back, but Aunt continued on her course undeterred.

She clucked her tongue over the state of her niece’s kirtle. “Alys, where do you find such rags?” she chided. “Truly, you must think of presenting yourself more fittingly. Do you mean to shame us all?”

Alys frowned at this unexpected accusation. “You granted it to me but a month past, and ’twas not in much finer condition then.”

“Such impertinence!” But there was no heat in Aunt’s words. Cook and Alys exchanged a puzzled glance. “And why, Alys, do you insist upon slumbering here? ’Tis somewhat beneath your station and makes us look less than honorable.”

Cook snorted and earned himself a sharp glance from his lady that had him turning back to his labor.

Alys folded her arms across her chest, not trusting her aunt’s new manner. “I had thought you wanted me to sleep here.”

“Oh, Alys, where do you find such nonsense? I will hear naught of your protests, nor any tales of the friends you harbor in the kitchen. Truly, what has seized your thoughts that you fraternize only with the servants?” Aunt leaned closer. “They are common-born, Alys. You forget yourself.”

“I forget naught!” Alys began to argue at the injustice of that, but Aunt seized her arm and hauled her from the kitchen.

“Come along, come along. God’s blood, Alys, but you have need of a bath.” She wrinkled her nose, then roared at the steward to summon a bath.

Alys fought her aunt’s grip, wondering what the woman intended for her now.

“Do not even think to return to your labor,” Aunt chided. “We shall find some embroidery to occupy your time. Perhaps Malvina will teach you.”

That halted Alys’s struggles. “Embroidery?”

“Aye,
embroidery,
Alys. I would think you might have heard of such noble pursuits.” Aunt called for that bath to be hastened as they crossed the threshold of the room that had been Burke’s. Alys noted immediately that the knight’s saddlebags were gone.

Before she could blink, Malvina—who surrendered naught to anyone—presented her with a plain yet fairly new kirtle. ’Twas the shade of goldenrod.

“ ’Twas cut too cheaply for me by that fool seamstress,” she declared. “But you are all bones, Alys, ’twill no doubt suit you well enough.”

Alys blinked. Someone had infested Kiltorren with strangers who looked as her family but did not act as them.

“Bathe yourself,” Aunt declared with a gracious smile. “Indeed, Alys, I cannot believe you have let matters go for so very long. And do teach this Edana child all that you know. ’Tis time enough you learned your role in this place and dressed appropriately, and time we all had a
decent
maid.”

“I did not choose my role in this keep,” Alys began to argue, but Aunt waved off her words.

“Details, Alys, are not of import.”

With that Aunt and Malvina scurried away.

When the door shut behind them, Alys shook her head. She surveyed her surroundings, incredulous that she would call this chamber her own. She was to live like a noblewoman!

And then she grinned, for she could hazard a guess as to the only one who could have wrought such a change in her circumstance. Alys could not help but wonder what Burke had said to see his will so smoothly done.

The man was incorrigible! Alys bounced on the bed and laughed aloud. Oh, she did not care what Burke had said, did not care that she would be cast back to the kitchen as soon as he departed. Alys would savor this change as long as it lasted.

But the knight was sorely mistaken if he thought she would express her gratitude with earthy favors.

“Woho!” Cook declared with a rap on the door. Alys sat up to find his eyes twinkling. “Our guest ensures you win your due. I like the man better with every passing day!”

“He seeks his own end, Cook, ’tis no more than that.”

Cook might have said more, but Cronan the steward brushed past him. The steward beckoned the lads from the kitchen, who rolled a great tub into the tiny chamber. He indicated the placement of the tub, nodded with thin-lipped approval, then snapped his fingers to demand the water.

“Quickly, quickly,” he rasped, his voice as dry as dust. One white brow arched slightly, and he presented Alys with a cake of soap. “Your mother favored this,” he conceded with a minute bow of his head, and then he swept from the room.

Alys lifted the cake to her nostrils and was treated to a wondrous smell of fresh flowers, a scent she liked but could not name. She let the newly arrived Edana smell it and the girl’s eyes widened in delight.

“ ’Tis marvelous!” Edana clasped her hands together. “Fitting of a lady true!”

Two girls carried candles and braziers in that very moment, their lips curved in smiles. Alys was quickly surrounded by the servants she had labored beside for so many years. They smiled and hugged her, kissed her cheek, and some even bowed low before her. They were laughing, each and every one, so pleased with her good fortune that Alys was nigh moved to tears.

Indeed, she wanted only to savor the moment and to sing.

Millard sat in the crowded hall, not in the least bit interested in the entertainers frolicking there. The meal was fine enough but already he chafed to return to his holdings.

’Twas a desire born as much from the urge to be rid of his nephew as anything else. Truly, Millard wished he had not been so readily persuaded by his sister to bring the boy along.

Indeed, Talbot had already made a considerable dint in the host’s wine. His manners were appalling—they only grew worse as he drank more and became uncharacteristically bold.

At least the boy was intimidated by Millard when he was sober.

As if to emphasize that point, Talbot winked at his uncle, reached to pinch the buttock of a serving wench, and spilled the entire contents of his chalice upon the floor. Worse, the girl lost her balance and the pitcher of wine she carried was spilled immediately afterward.

’Twas a shocking waste.

Millard snatched his nephew’s tabard and hauled the young knight up from the floor, depositing him with force upon the bench once again. “Witless fool!” he charged in an undertone.

“Uncle, ’twas an accident!”

“ ’Twas folly and ’twas rude,” Millard corrected. “Wine is cursed expensive in this land, yet our host brings forward the wealth of his cellars to show homage to the king’s own party.”
He cast a scathing glance at his dejected nephew. “And you cast it upon the floor as if ’twas as plentiful as piss in the stables.”

Talbot hung his head. “I am sorry, Uncle.”

“You are always sorry,” Millard observed. “Yet naught changes in your behavior. Truly, you are as reliable as a child of five summers. Did you learn naught in training for your spurs?”

Talbot poked at his empty chalice. “Maman said there was no need.”

“No need!” Millard inhaled sharply. “What manner of nonsense is this?”

His sister had always been indulgent of her younger son—indeed, Millard suspected this alone was the boy’s trouble. Though he was nigh upon twenty years of age—a full-fledged knight no less!—’twas hard to think of Talbot as anything other than a child. He had been indulged for too many years to deny himself anything at all.

Millard’s attempts to address this deficiency inevitably resulted in hostility from Talbot and a stream of recriminations from his sister. Still, he could not leave the matter be.

Aye, Millard knew well enough what plum his sister hoped to win for her youngest son. He would be damned to hell if he did not try to make a silk purse of this sow’s ear before ’twas too late.

“How could your mother maintain that there was naught of merit to be learned in your training?”

Talbot shrugged, then summoned the beatific smile that worked him free of most trouble he found. If he had not been such a handsome lad, Millard had no doubt he would have already felt the weight of his own inadequacies. “Maman knows best, Uncle.”

“Does she indeed?” Millard snapped. “And who will save your sorry hide when your Maman is not hovering over you, determined to make all you have done wrong come aright?”

Talbot blinked, began to speak, but then evidently thought the better of it.

Millard sat back with a grunt of satisfaction. At least the boy ceased to believe that he could comment openly about inheriting all Millard had built.

Indeed, his sister’s presumption grated on the older knight. He had once been a younger son, he had once been without inheritance, he had once lost the lady he loved for the lack of a sliver of land to call his own. Yet Millard had labored—in the wake of his loss, ’twas true—and he had built himself a holding far beyond the wealth of the one his elder brother had inherited.

And he would not willingly drop that prize into the lap of this sorry excuse for a man.

Unfortunately, because of that lack of an heir, Millard had little choice. He was snared by his own principles, trapped by his own refusal to wed another when still he might find his lady love. Indeed, he could never care for another woman the way he loved Isibeal, Millard knew it well. And he would insult no woman with a faint shadow of the love he knew himself capable of feeling.

He would have all, or he would have naught, and naught looked to be the winning choice.