Authors: Betrothed
Friar Thomas never asked her to repeat herself, and he always seemed interested in what she had to say. It didn’t take long before Claudia considered him a friend, although she knew their friendship would be a short one. He’d arrived at Lonsdale little more than a fortnight ago on his way to the shrine of Saint Andrew. Like many pilgrims, he had decided to extend his stay and do odd jobs in exchange for the food and supplies he needed to continue his journey. Each afternoon he came to the chapel gardens to help her pull weeds.
“And the feast afterward?” Thomas asked. He brushed off his hands then pushed back the cowl of his homespun robes to reveal brown hair the color of his eyes. “The middle bailey looks like the grounds of a fair. There are tents set up around the tables where minstrels and entertainers of all sorts will perform. Will I see you at the feast, Lady Claudia?”
She bent over her work to hide her scowl. “Nay, I will not attend. I must finish my work in the gardens this afternoon.”
“The weeds will still be here after the feast.”
Claudia said nothing.
“Did your uncle forbid you to attend?” he asked.
“He fears I will embarrass him in front of his guests, that the Montagues will think him related to a half-wit.” She kept her head bent and concentrated on her task. Despite her thick leather gloves, she worked cautiously around a stubborn thistle so the sharp spines would not scratch her arms. “I did not want to attend anyway. The feasting grounds will be crowded and noisy, and many will be drunk by nightfall. I prefer the quiet of the gardens, where none will disturb me.”
“ ’Tis said Guy of Montague often travels abroad, my
lady. I doubt he will consider anyone a half-wit because they are not English. ’Tis a shame your uncle is not so enlightened.”
Her eyes widened over the anger in the gentle friar’s voice. Before she could remark on the oddity, he gave her a small bow.
“If you will excuse me, Lady Claudia? I must attend mass.”
Claudia watched him walk around the rose arbor that stood in the center of the gardens, then to the gate that lay on the other side. With a sigh, she turned toward a clump of rosemary, then hunched down to pick at the endless supply of weeds. She did prefer the gardens. None would bother her here. Not that anyone would bother her at the feast. The people of Lonsdale avoided her whenever possible and that suited her just fine. She shook her head to shoo away a fly that was intent upon circling it. Stupid fly. Stupid
English
fly.
Next, a bee appeared on the white flower of the clover she wanted to pull. She sat back with her hands propped behind her and waited for the insect to find nectar elsewhere. Any sensible bee would join the drone of others that created a steady hum in the apple trees at one side of the gardens. The trees were so laden with blossoms that they looked like giant snowballs against the tall outer wall of the castle. The rare English sun shone bright above her, and she closed her eyes, then tilted her head back to let it warm her face. The scent of herbs and apple blossoms perfumed the air. England was not all bad, she decided. She might even marry an Englishman someday, a man like the one who had ridden into Lonsdale that morning.
Her eyes popped open and she returned to her work with renewed vigor. She was not some pampered English maid who could loll about a garden, her head filled with fanciful thoughts. She’d spent a good portion of her day trying to forget Baron Montague, ever since she watched him ride through the gates. Her curiosity had landed her in trouble again, for she would not be plagued by these thoughts if she
had tended her chores as she should have that morning. But she had heard so much about Baron Montague that she wanted just a glimpse of him.
From everything her uncle said about Baron Montague, she had expected a man in his middle years, fat with the bounty of his wealth. Yet Baron Montague looked no more than a half dozen years older than herself. The armor probably made him appear more imposing than he would be without it, but when he removed his helm, she could tell the armor was no more than a reflection of what lay beneath. Even from a distance she knew that he was the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes upon. His dark brown hair looked flecked with gold in the sunlight. His eyes were dark as well, keen with intelligence as they swept over the crowd. His face was all sharp planes and perfect angles, classical, she thought, like the statues of her homeland. When she looked upon Guy of Montague, she knew that this was what God intended when he created man.
She’d even deceived herself into thinking he returned her bold stare before she realized he could be looking at anything or anyone in the vicinity of the chapel. More than a score of people stood before her on the chapel steps, all waving their arms or bright scarves. Why should he notice one insignificant woman who stood in the shadows of the doorway?
That reasoning didn’t affect the force that drew her forward, an irrational urge to do whatever she could to be closer to him. The sound of the portcullis as it slammed shut had brought her to her senses just moments before she would have made a spectacle of herself. Aye, she would have looked a fool if she’d rushed forward to skip along the edge of the crowd after him, as foolish as the silly, giggling group of wenches who did just that. A few of the bolder ones did all but juggle cats to gain his attention. He’d paid them as little heed as he’d paid Claudia.
“Sono belli questi giardini.”
Crouched down near a patch of tarragon, Claudia startled at the sound of the deep voice. She shot to her feet and
spun around to search for its owner, even as she wondered who within Lonsdale Castle could speak such flawless Italian. She found the answer under one of the apple trees. Baron Montague stood there, one arm draped over a low-hanging branch. Her mouth opened for a moment, then closed again. He’d made a remark about the beauty of the gardens. She couldn’t think of anything to say, other than an admission that his armor did not do justice to his muscular build. His casual pose displayed his long, lean body to perfection. She pressed her lips together.
He pushed away from the apple tree and took several steps toward her. His dark blue clothes emphasized the strong lines of his body as well as his wealth. He wore slouch boots and leather breeks dyed the exact shade of his richly quilted tunic. Pearls were sewn at the cross-point of each quilt, a pattern that made the fabric appear an evening sky scattered with stars. At his waist, sapphires the same dark blue color as his clothing glittered along the hilts and sheaths of his dagger and sword. Only his eyes were a different shade of blue. They were the color of a warm, southern ocean.
The leopardskin sash he wore over one shoulder made a fitting emblem of his power. Like the big cat, there was an exotic air about him with just a hint of the dangerous animal that lay beneath the refined exterior. Even the tawny streaks of gold in his hair lent a deceptive warmth to his appearance.
“Very beautiful,” he went on, still speaking Italian. Something in his eyes gave the impression that he spoke of her, not the scenery around them. His gaze flickered over her, and she had the feeling he did not miss much in that quick inspection. Dirt and grass stains marred her skirts, and her green gown looked tawdry at best compared to his fine clothing. She felt like a child caught playing in mud puddles.
She responded in her own language, delighted by the opportunity to speak it aloud. “Where did you learn Italian, Baron?”
He smiled, and Claudia knew she’d never seen a smile so handsome. It made her feel warm all over. His words carried
just the barest trace of a Norman accent, his voice deep and silky. “I visit your country often, little one. I learned the language long ago.” He glanced around them, a casual glance that missed nothing. “What are you doing here all alone? The feasting will start soon. Will you not join the others?”
How did he know she was Italian, or guess to speak the language in the first place? Claudia supposed it must be the foreign look about her that Uncle Laurence often remarked upon, the look of her father. She glanced toward the chapel. The mass couldn’t be over so soon, yet the angle of the sun told her that almost two hours had passed since Friar Thomas departed and she could hear the distant sounds of voices as people made their way from the chapel. “The feast will not start without you, my lord. And I did not think to see you today without Baron Lonsdale and his entourage at your side. I could ask the same questions of you.”
“ ’Tis impolite to throw a man’s questions back in his face. Will I impress you with my fine manners if I answer them?”
Claudia heard herself giggle. She never giggled. What was wrong with her? She schooled her features into a dignified expression that would befit any lady. “You may try.”
He seemed amused by her attempt to maintain her composure. His smile grew broader when she lifted her chin at a haughty angle. “I told your uncle that I wanted a few minutes alone to reflect upon the uplifting message of Bishop Germaine’s sermon. Your uncle appeared impressed by my bent toward religious contemplations.”
Claudia felt her breath catch. “You know who I am?”
“Aye, Lady Claudia. I know that you are Baron Lonsdale’s niece.” He gestured toward the marble bench that sat beneath the rose arbor. “Will you sit with me?”
She took an involuntary step backward. “I—I have work to do.”
“Your uncle gave all within the castle permission to leave their duties for the feast. The meal might not begin until I arrive, but I would wager that the festivities are already under
way. By your uncle’s own words, you are now released from your duties until the morrow.”
Claudia bowed her head and tried to take as much time as possible to remove her gloves while her mind searched for another excuse. “I do not wish to intrude on your contemplations, Baron. I must leave.”
“Some might think it odd if they saw you leave the gardens just now.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged, a small gesture of dismissal that made her aware of the breadth of his shoulders. “This could appear an arranged meeting between us.”
“I must leave now, before anyone thinks any such thing!” She began to make her way from the herb plots. “No one will think anything amiss if I leave you to your contemplations so soon after you entered the gardens.”
“I have been here longer than you think, lady.” His words brought her up short.
She twisted her gloves between her hands and cast a worried glance toward the gate. “My uncle will be furious if he discovers that I tarry here with his guest. That is, we have no chaperon. This is improper.”
“One of my men guards the gate even now to make certain no one disturbs my meditation.” He started to walk toward her. “Come sit with me, Lady Claudia. I promise that none will know of your presence.” She began to back away from him until he came to a stop and extended his hand. “I have no mind now for religious thoughts, and I would enjoy your company. Give me a few moments of your time, then I will leave you in peace with none the wiser of our accidental meeting.”
She bit her lower lip and stared at his hand. If the baron had a man posted outside the gate, that meant her uncle had one posted there as well. Uncle Laurence would want to know the baron’s every movement inside the fortress. Word would surely reach her uncle if she left the garden before the baron.
She didn’t take the hand he offered, but she did make
her way to the bench and sat down. No good could come of this, yet it wasn’t fear that made her heart beat faster. It was the man who walked toward her.
He sat beside her without asking permission, his movements smooth and unhurried. “I was surprised when I did not see you at mass. Tell me you are not a pagan, or excommunicated for some dire reason.”
“I attended mass this morning,” she informed him in a prim voice. Her brows drew together in a frown. “You looked for me at the mass?”
“I searched for you everywhere.” He said that with such ease that she felt certain he teased her. He studied her face for a moment and seemed to read her thoughts. “You do not believe me?”
The exaggerated look he gave her was one of such wounded feelings that she smiled, aware that she smiled into the face of danger. This one could charm snakes, did he put his mind to it. “You cannot search for someone you do not know, Baron.”
“I know more about you than you might think. You are only half Italian, on your father’s side, and your mother was Baron Lonsdale’s sister. Five years ago, you and two brothers came to England after the deaths of your parents. Your brothers left soon after, but you remained at Lonsdale and earn your keep as a seamtress. ’Tis all I know of you at present, yet I would like to know more. Much more.”
His gaze moved over her face and settled on her mouth. Probably because it hung wide open. She snapped it shut. “How do you know so much about me?”
“It is in my best interests to know everything I can about Baron Lonsdale and his family. I came here to make a contract with your uncle, and I never enter into a contract without knowing all I can of who I bargain with.” He propped his hands at the edge of the bench behind him and stretched out his legs to cross them at the ankle. He looked every inch a nobleman at his leisure. “What would you like to know about me?”
“What would I—” She took a deep, steadying breath. “I have no need to know anything about you, Baron. Perhaps you should have this conversation with my uncle.”
“Ah, but I am here with you now.” His roguish grin made her pulse race. “Are you not the least bit curious? Is there nothing you wish to know about me? I will answer any question you pose.”
“Why would you pay so much for a keep worth so little?” The question left her mouth before she could think better of it. She shouldn’t question him at all, but now that she had, she grew bolder. “ ’Tis said you intend to purchase Halford Hall, that my uncle asked a fortune in gold florins, yet you agreed to his price without hesitation. Why would you agree to such a poor bargain?”
He looked away from her and studied his boots. She could tell from the downward tilt of his lips that he had little liking for the question, but true to his word, he answered it. “Halford belonged to Montague a long time ago. My father signed it over to your grandfather when I was still a boy. My mother grew up there, and I want Halford Hall under Montague rule once more.”