Chapter 21
Quentin rode through the gates of Mangeron and into the bustling outer bailey. A servant approached him and offered to care for his horse, but Quentin waved the boy away. He had business in the Mangeron stables. It wouldn’t do for another to take his mount.
He rode at a leisurely pace, his eyes watchful.
Mangeron always thrived. Under Crispin’s guidance, the estate flourished more than in previous generations.
Quentin searched for any new changes the new earl might have made since Quentin’s last visit to the castle had been for Renton’s funeral mass.
He wondered if the son would surpass his father’s touch.
His gaze caught a pretty girl, who blushed profusely when he winked at her. She ducked her head and hurried away, the basket she carried on her hip only drawing attention to her curves. He tamped down the sexual energy that began churning inside. He must stay focused.
The Mangeron stables appeared ahead, and he trotted his horse to its entrance. As he dismounted, Maitland came rushing over to him, a worried look on his face.
“Greetings, my lord. May I take your horse?”
Quentin grunted. “I am particular where ‘tis stabled. I shall accompany you and see the steed well placed.”
He wanted privacy for their talk, and the darkened stables would help keep prying eyes from their meeting.
The stable hand frowned and shook his head. “Not now,” he hissed. “We cannot talk. Simply hand over your horse.”
The boy’s attitude irked him. He had paid the lad for the information he’d given. Maitland was now in his pocket and always would be. He’d box his ears but good once they stepped inside.
The servant grasped the horse’s reins. “They are—”
“Why, good day, Lord Nowland. What brings you to Mangeron?”
He peered over the stable hand’s shoulder and saw Crispin de Mangeron emerging from the mews, his arm linked through his wife’s. Quentin could make out a faint band of yellow surrounding the woman. He released the reins to Maitland, who scurried off with the horse.
Sweat broke out along his hairline and under his armpits. It never failed any time he was nervous. Whether at cards or in the presence of the king, anxiety always flustered him in the worst way.
Quentin planted a smile upon his thin lips. “I thought I would come and see how the lovely Lady de Mangeron is faring.” He studied the noblewoman a moment. “Your confinement draws to an end, I suppose?” He couldn’t help but add, “I thought women secreted themselves away at such a time.”
Lady de Mangeron answered him. “I doubt I’d describe myself as lovely, my lord. More like a fattened goose. Crispin swears to me I still have feet, but I haven’t seen them in a fortnight.”
He felt a trickle of sweat roll down his back as she glared at him. “’Tis surprising you are out and about, my lady.”
Crispin gave his wife’s hand a loving pat. “Deva misses riding. We venture down to the stables every few days so she can visit the horses.”
“I know ‘tis odd, but I find the smell of hay and horse most refreshing.”
Her words had a patronizing air to them, and Quentin realized that Crispin must have revealed to his wife the role Quentin had played in their upcoming visitor’s life. Usually, the woman displayed the deference due to one of his position, but today her tone rang differently.
“She also is mad for apple tarts,” Crispin interjected. “Eats three or more a day. I do believe we’ll name the child Apolonia, for she’ll mostly be made up of apples.”
“Now, my lord husband, the babe could be a boy as easily as a girl,” she chided him, her voice softening as she spoke to her husband. “But as long as we speak of tarts, might you and Lord Nowland excuse me?” She openly glared at Quentin now. “I tire so easily these days. I wish to lie down.”
Quentin frowned. “Of course, my lady. Rest is important to one in your condition.” He bowed formally.
“Then I shall leave you gentlemen to your talk.”
Crispin kissed his wife’s cheek, and his wife left them alone in the yard.
As soon as she was out of hearing, Crispin turned to Quentin, his pretense of affability gone. “What say you, Nowland? Why did you really come to Mangeron? ‘Tis not as if we are close friends, merely neighbors by circumstance. State your business and leave.”
He scowled in return. The pup did not even feign the respect his office was due. He was half-brother to the king, after all.
“Though I suffered poor relations with your father, I had hoped to remedy that. I see you are as narrow-minded as that bastard was.” He looked around him. “Your stable boy has taken my horse. I’ll fetch it and be off your property.”
Crispin stepped in front of him. “I’ll see to it,” he said curtly and went to retrieve the horse himself.
“Damn the man,” Quentin said to himself.
He’d only needed a minute with Maitland to see if there had been any word from the escort party.
He figured it was expected at Mangeron in the next day or two.
He’d also wanted to pump the spy for any more information he or his sweetheart might have learned.
He supposed he’d simply have to return home and wait until Kallen de Mangeron was brought to Nowland instead.
Crispin returned with Quentin’s horse and tossed him the reins.
“Do not expect a welcome again, my lord,” the Mangeron lord warned him. “We have no friendship nor love lost between us, despite the fact I fostered with you. Keep to your lands, and I shall do the same.”
Quentin mounted his horse, biting his tongue and reminding himself to bide his time.
‘Twas Crispin de Mangeron who would suffer more in the long run.
His precious niece and her escort party would never arrive.
He could search to the ends of the kingdom and never know she lay but a few leagues away from Mangeron.
If his soldiers managed to kill every last member of her guard, that is.
He’d ordered there to be no survivors, for he didn’t want a war with his neighbor.
He would play the innocent when Crispin came hunting for his niece, as Quentin expected would happen.
How could he have someone in his custody whose existence he didn’t know of?
He smiled and said, “Good day,” through gritted teeth, spurring his horse and riding out the gates. Crispin de Mangeron would be the first person he took down after he toppled that idiot Edward from his throne.
And Kallen de Mangeron would lead the way.
Griffith escorted Kallen down the road at a leisurely pace. As they strolled, the sky darkened. A wind from the north picked up, more true to the November day than the earlier sunshine.
He placed an arm about her for warmth and then thought better of it. He could hear the men and knew the campsite was close.
“Kallen?”
She turned and looked up at him, the dirt still smudging her beautiful face.
“We need to talk a moment.”
“We’ve been talking for quite a while, Griffith.”
He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “We are almost to the camp. I must make you understand something. I am your protector, head of this guard. ‘Tis not quite acceptable that I’ve formed such a... close relationship with you. I have not your uncle’s permission. Do you understand what I say?”
Her gray eyes darkened and then clouded over a moment. “Yes, I see. We are not to act so familiar in front of the men. Is that what you ask?”
Griffith nodded and gave her forehead a quick kiss.
“I think the men will understand why I embraced you when we found you. Most will know I was relieved and wanted to reassure you. A few might guess otherwise, but I do not want to feed those suspicions. We still can remain friendly. We are friends and should act naturally with each other.”
She cocked her head to one side. “I suppose I shall have to be content with merely dreaming of your kiss, my lord.”
A sweet ache filled Griffith. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Then I shall meet you in those dreams, Kallen. But until then, may this keep us satisfied.”
He brought his mouth to hers in a sweet, lingering kiss.
Yet each time he wished to draw away from her, he found himself deepening the kiss.
Kallen had become everything to him in such a short time.
He brought her close, his arms tightening about her, her heart hammering, matching his own pounding one.
A rustling in the woods caused them to break apart.
“Time to return,” he whispered to her.
Griffith allowed Kallen to lead him into the camp, where the men greeted her with a rousing cheer. She blushed at the attention. Each man came over personally to tell her how glad he was she had been found safely. She thanked each one in return for their role in rescuing her.
He watched John approach her, the last of the men to do so.
“My lady, we brought your mare and the bag of clothes tied to her. Would you like to go downstream and freshen up a bit? Wash your face or change your surcoat? When you return, we’ll have some fine stew for you.”
Kallen wrapped her cloak about her and nodded. Griffith had noticed the dried bloodstains down the front of her clothes when they’d found her and was relieved they were not her own.
John retreated to the horses and brought back her things. “Now stay within a shout, my lady,” he cautioned her. “We’ll come a-running if you need us.”
She thanked him and took the bundle, disappearing after a moment.
Griffith stepped over to John. The soldier smiled at him.
“My lady will feel better once she’s splashed a little water on her face and gotten into some different clothing.” He shook his head. “She’s a brave one, that she is.”
He heard the admiration in John’s voice. He realized Kallen had captured all their hearts with her sweet smiles and rapturous storytelling and now her bravery in the face of danger.
“She is indeed, John. I don’t know if even Deva would have held up as well, and she’s the most amazing woman I’ve known. Until now.”
John slapped him on the back. “Stew’s on, my lord. Come have a taste. You’ve more than earned it this day.”
Griffith followed John to the fire and dished out a steaming bowl. As he ate, he began to formulate a plan in his mind.
By the time Kallen returned, most of his strategy was set. His gut told him Nowland was still a threat and must be dealt with accordingly. Griffith turned his thoughts toward Mangeron and what lay ahead.