Chapter Two
“Has she said a word to you?”
The weather had worsened since leaving Haslingden that morn, the addition of a nippy gale making life generally uncomfortable.
The sky overhead was gray, the smell of rain pervasive and sharp.
Astride his muscular charger, Kirk refused to glance at the wind-whipped young lady riding several paces behind him. “Not a word.”
Niles, however, did look at her. Swathed in a heavy cloak that was both too large and too worn, Mara was watching the muddied road pass beneath her mare’s hooves. With a shake of the head, Niles returned his attention to the bleak landscape.
“Not even a word for saving her life?”
“Nothing.”
“Ungrateful wench. You should have let her fall.”
Kirk chewed on his lip as his steed plodded along, refusing to reply to Niles’ cruel statement. “We should see Ormskirk in another hour. We shall find a clearing to pitch camp and be gone before sunrise. Hopefully we shall reach Anchorsholme by the nooning meal.”
Niles nodded, passing the information to the men-at-arms. To Kirk’s left, Corwin let out a nasty burp.
“Good Christ,” he gurgled. “I can still taste this morning’s meal. Disgusting as it was, barley gruel.”
“Considering the poverty of the keep, we were fortunate for that.” Niles cast a disgusted glance at Corwin. “What about the powder Lord Edmund’s physic gave you? Doesn’t that settle your stomach?”
“I used it all.” Corwin was struggling not to wretch in front of the ladies. “Yesterday, in fact.”
Niles shook his head. “For a man who has spent his entire life in the saddle, I find it extremely peculiar that your stomach has not grown accustomed to the sway of a horse.”
Corwin puffed out his cheeks as another strong burp rocked him, discreetly passing it off. “The sway of the horse, the sway of a wagon, makes little difference. Any movement makes me ill.” He was suddenly overtaken with another burp, so loud that the men-at-arms snickered.
Kirk was rattled by the sound, distracted from the thoughts that had plagued him most of the day and night.
Thoughts involving the ungrateful, foolish, alluring Lady Mara.
Forcing himself back to the world at hand, his deep voice rumbled with impatience.
“We have ladies with us, Corwin. Control your repulsive habits.”
“I cannot help it, my lord,” he said sullenly. “You know how travel affects me.”
“I know all too well.” Kirk cast the auburn-haired knight a long glance. “But I ask that you control yourself just the same.”
The journey progressed silently, aside from the various sounds emitting from Corwin’s body no matter how hard he tried to suppress them.
The weather, strangely, was now threatening to clear, wisps of sunlight filtering through the clouds.
On the outskirts of Ormskirk, Kirk spied a sheltered clearing and immediately called a halt.
Men-at-arms rushed the pasture, establishing the site as Kirk moved to the ladies.
“We will camp here for the night, ladies,” he said, looking down from his tall charger. “We shall rise early and be at Anchorsholme by noon.”
Micheline nodded submissively while Mara eyed the busy soldiers. She had no intention of sleeping in the wet grass. “The weather is damp, my lord,” she said, turning her bright blue gaze to him. “Micheline’s health has always been delicate.”
He met her steadily. “There will be a warm fire and adequate bedding. I am sure the lady will fare well.”
As he feared, a willful eyebrow lifted. “An inn would do better. Micheline is, after all, the intended of a baron. Would a decent room not be more suitable to her station?”
She had a point. Kirk looked at Micheline who, sensing his attention, immediately flushed. “A sturdy tent will do very well, my lord. An inn will not be necessary.”
Mara turned to her sister before Kirk could reply.
“Ridiculous, Misha. Do you remember that bout with the chill two months ago? Why, you have only just recovered. Moreover, you are to be married to a wealthy man and there is no reason why you should not be provided with the comforts befitting his station.”
Micheline’s blush deepened, her plain blue eyes fixed on her sister. “Please, Mara,” she hissed, refocusing on Kirk’s intense gaze. “An inn is not necessary, my lord. A pitched shelter will do quite nicely.”
Mara opened her mouth but Kirk blotted out her response. “As you say, Lady Micheline.” He ignored Mara’s frustrated expression. “Lord Edmund has sent along his very own travel bedding for your comfort.”
He reined his horse in the direction of the camp when Mara’s voice stopped him. “I would hardly call dusty furs and molding linens appropriate comfort.” She made sure Kirk was looking at her when she spoke. “My sister deserves the best.”
“And she shall have it.”
“I am speaking of a warm inn.”
“And I am not.” The stone-gray eyes cooled. “This discussion is ended, Lady Mara.”
Mara and Micheline watched him trample through the winter grass, gesturing to a few men and sending them running.
“You should not provoke him, Mara,” Micheline said softly, eyeing the soldiers that had been left to watch over them. “He has been exceptionally patient with you. Not to mention the fact that he saved your life yesterday.”
Mara looked away stubbornly. “I would not have been forced out onto the ledge had he not threatened to break my door down. ’Tis his own fault that I almost fell to my death.”
Micheline sighed. “’Tis your own willfulness that almost cost you your life. And it would make my life considerably easier if you would learn to control yourself. I have enough to worry over with thoughts of a new husband.”
Mara cast her sister a long glance. “I am in perfect control, Misha. And I was perfectly correct in asking Sir Kirk to take us to an inn. You deserve proper lodgings, as a future baroness.”
“I am not speaking of that in particular, but everything.” Micheline’s gaze moved to the distant camp, a weak fire beginning to smoke. “Really, Mara. I simply do not have the strength to deal with your bold nature or Sir Kirk’s resulting anger.”
Mara followed her sister’s gaze to the glowing encampment.
She could see that Kirk had dismounted his warhorse, head-and-shoulders taller than the rest of his men as he stalked the camp to make sure everything was proceeding orderly.
His men practically bowed at his feet, making haste to carry out any order or request.
“His anger is of no concern to me,” she said, watching the activity. “Especially when I am correct.”
Micheline’s expression suggested nothing but impatience. “Correct or no, you must learn to curb your mouth. If not for yourself, then for me. Please consider my position; how would it appear for the new baroness to have a hellion for a sister?”
Mara did not reply for a moment, the bright blue eyes suddenly growing distant. “Do you recall the last time you visited an inn, Misha?”
Micheline blushed with the change of subject, lowering her gaze. “Not a word, Mara. I refuse to….”
“Father used to make you dance for money to feed his gambling habit.” Mara wasn’t listening to her sister’s protests. “And he would leave me outside, on the street, pretending I was an orphan and begging for more money. Do you remember?”
Micheline refused to answer. Met with silence, Mara turned to her sister. “Do you?” When Micheline nodded weakly, Mara’s expression softened. “That is why you do not want to go to an inn, isn’t it? They hold nothing but bad memories for you.”
Micheline sighed deeply, avoiding Mara’s knowing stare. “The smell of ale and sweat still makes me vomit,” she murmured, sickened by the painful memories. “The only reason father did not prostitute me was because he knew he could get a better price for a virgin bride.”
“But in the end, he used you to pay off a gambling debt as if you were a commodity.”
“To Monroe de Cleveley,” Micheline finished quietly, “as a bride for his only son.”
Mara observed her sister’s pained expression.
She had been young enough not to mind begging, her aggressive nature having served her well.
But Micheline, just over the brink of womanhood, had been embarrassed to display herself like a common trollop.
Dancing for drunken soldiers, or singing in her piercing soprano for the few coins they would throw.
It had been a shameful way to grow up, better left forgotten.
But not before Edward le Bec bestowed one final act of humiliation by using his eldest daughter to settle a substantial gambling obligation.
Mara knew that Micheline’s humiliation ran deep, being likened to hard currency rather than flesh and blood.
“Think on it this way, Misha.” She attempted to lighten the heady mood that had settled.
“A wealthy husband and the title of baroness. Mayhap Father’s gambling habit will have positive results, after all. ”
Micheline nodded faintly, feeling the first few drops of rain cool her flaming cheeks. “I wonder what he looks like.” She raised her eyes, meeting Mara’s gaze. “My husband, I mean. I have been wondering for two years.”
Mara smiled. “Dashing, I am sure.”
Kirk’s bellow echoed in the distance and both ladies turned toward the camp. “As dashing as Sir Kirk?” Micheline asked softly.
Mara shrugged. “He’s a beast. A misshapen giant.”
“He’s terribly handsome, Mara. Or hadn’t you noticed through all of your resistance?”
She had, if she were to admit it. A square jaw, thick dark lashes and a straight nose. And this morning she had even caught a glimpse of dark, shiny hair beneath his hauberk. Before he donned his helm and transformed into an evil fighting machine that took delight in dominating her.
“I have noticed that he is three times my size.” She turned her nose up stubbornly; there was no way Micheline would be able to wrangle a confession from her. “His fists are as big as my head.”
“Who cares about his fists?” Micheline smiled, almost seductively. “I was speaking of his face.”