Taming the Beast (11 page)

“Yes, yes. I see. Where shall we—”

But Roderick already knew the perfect location for his childish, painful, humiliating practice before Hugh could finish his question. Where he was sure his father could watch Roderick take back the life he'd tried so hard to destroy.

“Take them to the ring on the knoll, near the stables.”

 

“…and they rode all the way to London town!” Michaela ended the song on a clap and Leo joined in enthusiastically.

“More!” the little boy demanded with his beautiful smile.

“Again? Leo, we've sung it a dozen times already!”

“No more?” He scrunched up his nose and then, as if the idea had just come to him, he grabbed up the scraggly bunch of mangled and wilted stems and thrust them at Michaela. “Fowwers?”

Michaela laughed. “I think we've picked all to be had today.” The ragged greenery was little more than frilly weeds—all that was readily available as winter bore down on the land, but the picking of them had given the boy such joy, and Michaela felt her load lighten at just being with Leo Cherbon. The boy's very existence had been a shock at first, but Michaela was thrilled by the lord's young son and she hated to leave his company.

“Mayhap we can go about again on the morrow if Sir Hugh will allow it, eh? But right now, I must return to the keep. I have chores to attend to, and you likely are wanting of a morsel to eat.”

The boy's round face fell again, but only for a moment before he suddenly bolted to his bare feet in the grass and ran past Michaela, shouting, “Fire, fire!”

“Fire?” Michaela twisted around with alarm, but only saw Leo dashing toward a rotund figure in a brown robe.

Friar
. It was Friar Cope, a man Michaela was most familiar with, having seen him recently at the wedding of Alan Tornfield and Lady Juliette.

She had hoped to escape that memory here, and she wondered with dread what the holy man was doing at Cherbon.

Leo hurled himself at Friar Cope's knees, and the kind man laughed and patted the boy's head. “Good day, Leo! What are you doing about alone? Where is Sir Hugh?”

“No Hoo. Aid-ee Mike-lah! Ee-oh pick fowwers!” Leo announced, thrusting his bouquet at Friar Cope and then pointing backward in Michaela's direction.

The friar allowed the little boy to take hold of his hand and pull him closer, and Michaela groaned inwardly at the pitiful little smile the friar gave her.

“Good day, Lady Michaela. I see the rumors I heard were sadly correct.”

“Good day, Friar. It's nice to see you again.” It wasn't. “What business have you at Cherbon?” she asked, choosing to ignore the subject of her own new residency there.

“No business, my dear. Only coming home, at last. Being the demesne seat, Cherbon is the base of my ministry.”

“Oh, I didn't realize,” Michaela said lightly, but inside she screamed in temper, pounded her fists and stomped her feet. Now she would be faced with the damning memory of Alan's betrayal and her own humiliation on a regular basis. “Welcome home, then.”

“Thank you, my lady. May I sit?” The friar indicated the flattened patch of dead grass Leo had recently vacated, as if asking permission to dine at a grand table.

“Of course,” Michaela said, although Leo was already tugging the man onto the ground by pulling on his hand with both arms.

“Fire sit—Ee-oh pick more fowwers!” And he was off a short distance away, perusing the buffet of weeds and grass for anything remotely blossomlike.

Michaela and Friar Cope sat side by side for several moments, watching the three-year-old in heavy silence.

“Michaela, my dear, what in Heaven's name are you doing at Cherbon?” he asked quietly.

“What am I doing here?” Michaela reiterated quietly, ruffling a palm over the crackly grass near her hip. “What am I doing here? Well, I hope to be saving my parents from poverty, is what I'm doing here. Since I was so recently relieved of my position at Tornfield. Which you obviously already know all about.”

“You were not relieved of your position,” Cope argued gently. “I've just come from Tornfield and you still have a home there, should you want it. Cherbon is no place for you—Roderick is no man for you to be setting your sights on.”

The mention of Tornfield caused Michaela's heart to clench. “Why? Because I am the least of nobility in the whole of the land? Is silly Miss Fortune not worthy of such a grand home as Cherbon? Lord Roderick too lofty an ambition?” She knew she sounded defensive, but she didn't care—she was.

“Not at all,” Cope answered. “You are very special, my child. I have known that since your birth. But this place is—” He broke off, looked around the deserted grounds, and Michaela knew he was seeing the vine-covered walls, the gloomy, abandoned atmosphere. “Haunted, for lack of a better word. Many sad and terrible things have taken place at Cherbon. And Roderick—he was not always the hard man that he is now. Indeed, before he left on his pilgrimage, we all had great hopes for the day when Roderick would take his father's place. A kind man, gentle, then. Fair in word and in deed. But I fear he has come to resemble his father in actions and rule so much that there is little that could be done to redeem him. He is scarred, and not only from his physical injuries.”

“I didn't know Roderick Cherbon before I came, nor did I meet his father. So I shall reserve my opinion of him until I know him well enough on my own.”

“But, my dear,” Cope insisted, “so many women—most more experienced than you, if I may be so bold—have tried and fled. There is—”

“Ninety-six, to be exact,” Michaela said lightly, plucking a short, rough leaf from the grass and rubbing it between her thumb and finger. “I am the ninety-seventh.”

Friar Cope was quiet for a moment. “Your parents are worried for you. Your father, especially. He knew Magnus Cherbon—”

“Magnus Cherbon is dead, though, Friar,” Michaela interrupted. “And I am getting along well enough so far. I must succeed here. There is no other hope for my parents, or for me.”

Cope reached into his robe. “Mayhap this will sway you?” He handed Michaela a folded scrap of paper.

She didn't want to take it, but she did, and unfolded it carefully. Her throat tightened at the familiar, dainty, scribbling script of Elizabeth Tornfield.

Michaela hastily brushed at the tears on her face, folded the letter back and returned it to the friar.

“You don't wish to keep it?” he asked, his eyes wide.

“No, I don't. Thank you.” She swiped at her nose with the back of her hand, not caring if it was uncouth. “Lord Alan would likely be much put-out that his daughter sent me that message. I assume you read it?” It was not an accusation, only a statement.

“I did, yes. And I do doubt that Lord Alan minds—he gave his blessing for me to carry the message to you.”

Anger welled up in Michaela at the thought of Alan's attempted manipulation. “I shall forget I ever read it. And if you by chance happen to be asked to carry another to me, please do not.”

“Michaela—”

“Leo!” Michaela called in a loud, shaky voice, standing and cutting off Friar Cope's sympathetic tone. The little boy turned his bright, eager face to her. “Come along—'tis time we returned to the keep.”

Friar Cope too stood. “Do not begrudge Lord Alan his choice, Michaela. He was doing what he felt was best for all at Tornfield.”

“Certainly. Which is why I am no longer at Tornfield.” Leo dashed to Michaela's side, swinging himself about on her skirts. She reached down to seize his hand and began walking away from Cope without so much as a glance. “Good day, Friar.”

“Gooday, Fire!” Leo twisted about to call back and wave over his shoulder. Then his little voice seemed directed upward. “Aid-ee Mike-lah ky-in'?”

“No, Leo.” Michaela sniffed and did not look down at the boy lest the tears spill over her lashes. “I have something in my eye, that's all.”

Something had greatly upset Miss Fortune, and Roderick could not help but wonder at the cause, as he was fairly certain it was not him.

She had cried herself to sleep; he could see that even in the almost complete absence of light of her bedchamber, staring at her still form on the mattress through the cleft of the bed curtains. Her face was turned toward him on her pillow as she lay on her side on the very edge of the mattress—as if she had stared longingly out—and she clutched a length of the coverlet to her face. The murky light from the faraway window illuminated her cheeks and hair just enough for him to see the puffiness of her eyelids and the downward turn of her mouth, even in the darkness.

Damned to shadows as he was, Roderick's night vision had become quite spectacular.

As he crept about, he had found no evidence for her distress in the chamber that had housed him through his boyhood. Everything was in its place, nothing strewn about in a pique of anger or despair. And perhaps 'twas only the hopeless feel of the room Roderick had always and still hated, but he didn't think so. Miss Fortune was unhappy.

He wanted her to be happy here. But he didn't know how to make it so. Indeed, in his longest memory, no one had ever been happy at Cherbon, save mayhap his father, and he had been a demon who found happiness only in others' misery.

Magnus had likely died ecstatic.

Roderick took a chance and crouched awkwardly at the bedside, his left leg held straight, his face mayhap only a foot away from the sleeping Miss Fortune's. In all the time since women had been coming to Cherbon in hopes of becoming his wife, Roderick had never made use of the secret panel of his old room. But since he'd first seen Michaela Fortune, it was as if he could not stay away from her. Although he could not bring himself to speak to her face-to-face—quite possibly sending her screaming from the keep in mad terror, like the last woman—this way he could look in upon her, mayhap glean some small piece of information that would aid him in keeping her.

His injuries had made him like the animal people rumored him to be—his night vision was superb; his hearing—despite his temporary deafness in one ear—was sharper than a bat's; his sense of smell so keen that he could tell an oak from a beech with his eyes closed. And he could smell her—loudly, it seemed—from where he crouched. Her fresh, green scent, like the newest heather crushed underfoot, and her sadness. It was a sweet smell, but rather sorry, like wet hay stacked in a stable and then forgotten.

“What happened?” he breathed, his own fine hearing barely even registering the words.

But she stirred, hummed a bit in her sleep, and even that sound was despondent.

Roderick waited until she was still again, and then rose to his feet slowly, soundlessly. He was pressing his fortune—ha!—staying here, daring to even breathe in her presence. Should she awaken and find him—a beast of a man, scarred and broken—a black monster, she would be rightly terrified. Roderick was ashamed.

He slipped behind the well-oiled panel and into the tiny cubicle that led to the corridor of his own wing.

 

A week passed, and although Roderick continued his nightly visits to Miss Fortune when she was least aware, he was relieved to note that she no longer seemed to be crying herself to sleep. But a pair of faint creases had begun to etch themselves between her delicate eyebrows as if life for her at Cherbon was exacting a great toll and required her complete concentration.

He hovered over her for only a pair of minutes each time, trying to absorb as much of her as he could in the quiet dark, as if it would lend him insight to her person, her very soul. He wondered at her motives, both in coming to Cherbon and in staying, when no other woman had been able to bear the castle or its lord. But there was no revelation to be found on the smooth surfaces of her eyelids, and so each visit only left Roderick wanting, and this night was no different.

Hugh and Leo were waiting for him when he returned to his chamber, and as soon as he swung open the door, Leo scrambled to his feet from where he and Hugh had been lounging on the thick rug on the floor and ran to greet him.

“Good ee-binning, Wod-wick,” Leo said, catching himself just before he barreled into Roderick's legs, but his smile was pure and wide and bright. He looked back over his shoulder at Hugh as if for approval, and Hugh nodded and winked at the boy.

“Good evening, Leo. How was your day?”

“Fun! But Aid-ee Mike-lah no pick fowwers and singed wif me today—busy-busy. But no soos. And no bad Harliss.”

Roderick nodded seriously. Could it have been Leo that had upset Miss Fortune those handful of days ago? Perhaps something the boy had said? Her mysterious tears haunted Roderick still, and his concern of them troubled him even more deeply.

“Does Lady Michaela enjoy herself when the pair of you go about?” he asked the boy.

Leo nodded. “Sometime her get somefing in her eye, tho', and then her go to bed. Wod-wick pay soul-jer wif me and Hoo, now?” The little boy reached out tentatively, as if to take Roderick's hand.

“Not tonight, Leo.” Roderick winced inwardly as Leo's hand stopped in midair and he snatched it behind his back. “I must speak with Sir Hugh for a moment and then I'm going to bed, as well. Should you also be?”

Leo was looking at the floor now. He nodded slowly and then turned to dash back to the rug and throw himself down amidst the wooden toys scattered there, his little back to Roderick. Hugh reached out and ruffled the boy's hair as he stood.

“You may play for a bit longer, Snot, and then it's off to bed with you.”

“All wite, Hoo.”

Roderick collapsed in his chair and Hugh dragged over another to join him. “It seems our Miss Fortune has received a letter.”

“From whom? I saw no strangers about today.”

“How could you? You didn't leave your chamber until after the evening meal, when most everyone had quit the keep.”

Roderick shrugged.

“Any matter, the letter came last week, when Cope returned from Tornfield. He carried with him a message from Tornfield's young daughter, Elizabeth.”

Ah. So there it was.

Roderick would not admit even to Hugh his secret trips into his childhood chamber, and because he knew Hugh could not keep even the smallest sliver of gossip to himself, Roderick could feign disinterest.

“How lovely for Lady Michaela,” he said, letting an extra crinkle of sarcasm muss his words.

“They want her back.”

The chalice Roderick was bringing to his lips paused, but only for an instant. He didn't think Hugh noticed.

“Oh?” He drank.

“Mmm-hmm. Seems Tornfield was more than a little surprised that Miss Fortune took off like she did. Apparently he wanted the chance to speak with her, explain some things.”

“Well, too bad for him, then, isn't it?” Roderick paused. “Is she going back?”

“No. She's told me and Friar Cope as much. Says she'll stay here until you throw her out.”

Roderick released the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

“Apparently her family is in such dire straits, and her pride was so badly bruised, she wouldn't have Alan Tornfield on a silver platter. She's determined to win you.”

Roderick thought of Leo relating that Lady Michaela had gotten something in her eye and then gone to bed. Whatever was in the missive from the Tornfield girl had obviously been the thing that upset her, and Roderick was angry that he was just now hearing of it.

“Why are you telling me this at this late date, Hugh? Besides your usual penchant for salacious gossip?”

“I'm only warning you,” Hugh said mildly, sipping from his own chalice that had been set aside earlier, assumedly when he'd brought Leo in for their nightly play. “And I only found out myself today. If Tornfield decides to press his suit and Miss Fortune is as in love with him as I suspect, she could be worn down. Perhaps she'll return to him after all.”

Roderick grunted, and his heart pounded. “What? To live out her days as a child's nurse?” Roderick scoffed.

“No, Rick—likely as his mistress,” Hugh explained patiently, as if the information did not faze him in the least. “Or whatever Miss Fortune demands. Besides her being modestly good-looking, I suppose, if you like the pale-faced, shepherdess type, you're not the only one keeping track of the days until your thirtieth birthday. 'Tis likely your dear cousin would try to woo Miss Fortune away if only to be certain you do not inherit Cherbon.”

“That's ridiculous,” Roderick spat. Then he looked at Hugh. “Isn't it?”

Hugh shrugged, took another sip. “I daresay I would not be surprised if more messages begin to arrive. And then it will be gifts, and minstrels, and on and on.” He waved a bored hand.

“No more messages—for anyone at Cherbon—before they come through me. I will approve all correspondence.”

“Miss Fortune is a step ahead of you in that area, Rick,” Hugh said. “Her feminine pique already prevailed of the fat friar to deliver no more messages to her from Tornfield.”

“Oh. Good.” Roderick felt very unsure. “We should start my increased practices soon though, should we not? Perhaps if I'm well enough—”

“I do think it would be best. And who knows? Perhaps Miss Fortune will not be repulsed by you.”

“Thank you, friend,” Roderick said, and quirked an eyebrow.

“Now, Rick, come on—you know I didn't mean it in that way.” Hugh reached over and gripped Roderick's forearm, but Roderick shrugged it away. “It's only that—”

“I know, Hugh.” Roderick bent over and began the nightly struggle with his boots. “I tire. Do you move the squires' toys tonight?”

“Yes. As soon as Leo—”

“Very well. Good night, Hugh.”

Hugh sat for a moment longer, as if he wanted to say something else, but Roderick's glaring glance caused him to rethink the wisdom of it. He sighed instead.

“All right, Rick. I'll leave you to your sourness.” He rose, setting his chalice on a side table. “Come along, Grub. Nighty-nighty, doggies bitey. Say your good night to Roderick.”

Leo reluctantly got up from the floor and dashed to stand before Roderick, who had to drop the laces of his boots to keep the tyke from barreling into him. As soon as his hands grasped the boy's small upper arms, Leo took it as an embrace and threw both hands around Roderick's neck.

“Good night, Wod-wick. See you 'morrow.”

“Good night, Leo.” Roderick felt awkward with the boy hung about him, but he patted his slender back dumbly before setting Leo from him. “Run along now,” he said gruffly.

At the door, Hugh was smiling strangely. He held out an arm, shepherding the boy as Leo flew past him. The lad was forever running full tilt. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” Hugh said, and leaned into the corridor. “Boil!
Leo
, stop! Wait for me, right there.
Don't move.
”

Hugh reentered the chamber and crossed to Roderick's chair, reaching into his fine tunic. He withdrew a folded sheet of parchment. “From none other than Miss Fortune herself. I told her you wouldn't, but as I've said, she is quite impossible.” Hugh handed the square to Roderick, saluted him, and then left the room, closing the door on his shout of, “Leo! You little arse-tick! Come ba—”

Left in the disconcerting silence of Leo's impromptu embrace and the unexpected letter from the woman he'd just been spying on, Roderick sat staring at the missive for several moments. He took a deep breath and opened it.

Roderick read the missive through several times. No one save Hugh dared demand Roderick do anything anymore, and for the better part of an hour, while he struggled with his boots and removed his heavy clothes, Roderick fumed at the girl's audacity.

But then he recalled the tear-streaked face in the moonlight, and the instance of the Tornfield girl begging her to return—telling the old friar, no less, so desperate was the hold to have her back, and Roderick was torn.

Should he meet with Miss Fortune in the light, so soon after her arrival, it was very likely she would pack her belongings and be off to Tornfield by sunset.

Though should he refuse her, he could very well suffer the same outcome. For how long could a wounded bird such as she beat her beak on a cold iron piling? Especially when a comfortable nest called to her? Roderick knew she had not felt welcomed at Cherbon, by the serfs, by Hugh, and especially not by Roderick. Perhaps she found some little joy in Leo, but Leo was only a child. He could not be expected to carry the whole of Cherbon on his young shoulders.