Taming the Beast (6 page)

Michaela was completely humiliated to see Lady Juliette smirking at his side.

“Well, I must say that you were right, Lord Tornfield,” Juliette said sweetly. “Miss Fortune does make a jolly nurse for your Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth got up from the floor and fled the hall, leaving Michaela to struggle to her feet alone, her hand slipping off the arm of the chair but once.

“Oh, she's not Elizabeth's nurse, Lady Juliette,” Alan said, and Michaela wanted to think there was a bit of chastisement in his tone. “They're…friends.”

“Friends. Of course,” Juliette accepted. “How fortunate for Elizabeth that her father has found such a generous…friend.”

Michaela bit her tongue until she tasted blood. She would have chewed it off at the root with her own teeth rather than say something mean and petty in front of Lord Tornfield. Any matter, Lady Juliette continued.

“I hate to leave such entertaining company,” she simpered, “but I have a long journey to my own hearth. Good night, my lord. I hope my visit has been informative.”

“Enlightening, certainly. I will be in touch with you very soon. Good night, Lady Juliette.”

“Miss Fortune.”

Michaela kept her tongue firmly between her teeth as Juliette swept from the hall.

And then it was only Michaela and Lord Tornfield in the large, quiet room, lit by the hearth at her back. The flames bathed him in a golden glow and his hair, his mustache, his skin, looked like they were cast from that precious metal, even if his expression appeared unusually tense and preoccupied.

Lord Tornfield held his hand out toward her, and Michaela's favorite part of each day began as she wrapped her fingers around his forearm.

 

“Amen,” Alan said in a quiet smiling voice, and then kissed the top of Elizabeth's head before rising from the edge of the bed. Michaela stepped to the pair and added her own kiss to the little girl's face.

“Happy dreams, my love,” she said, and went round to the opposite side of Elizabeth's bed to help pull the embroidered coverlet over the girl.

Elizabeth blew kisses to them both as Alan carried the candlestick from the room, allowing Michaela to precede him through the doorway and then closing the door softly.

Michaela was filled with warm contentment as she and Alan walked side by side down the corridor to her own chamber—easily twice the size of her room at the Fortune house. In this comfortable, loving routine, Michaela liked to imagine that she was the Lady of Tornfield, that Elizabeth was her daughter, and handsome Lord Alan was her own husband. She gave a heavy sigh as she came to a halt before her door, a reluctant good night on her tongue.

“Lady Michaela,” Alan said before Michaela could speak. “Would you indulge me a few moments of your time before retiring? There is something of importance I would speak with you about.”

“Of course, my lord,” she said immediately, her stomach aflutter at what could be so pressing that Lord Alan would retain her company after Elizabeth was abed.

“It is rather private. Would it be terribly untoward of me to request we converse in my apartment?”

Michaela's hand slid off the door latch and she fell—
hard
—into the door frame. Alan's arm shot out to steady her and a concerned frown creased his handsome brow.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes!” She laughed. “I just…My hand slipped, is all.” She shrugged, and felt like an idiot. “We can converse anywhere you wish, my lord,” she said, trying to gather her posture and what was left of her pride.

“Thank you. Shall we, then?”

She followed him farther down the corridor to his door and stepped inside when he swept his arm toward the portal.

It would have been obvious to any stranger who entered that these were the lord's rooms by the masculine décor—dark burgundy draperies hung at the large window and around the bed, and rich fabric of that same hue covered the pair of tufted stools nestled under a small table along one wall. There were few frills, and the plush velvet seemed to breathe leather and musk. But Michaela did see a handful of signs that the chamber had once housed a female—a gilded hairbrush on a side table, a pair of dainty embroidered slippers at the foot of a painted wooden trunk—and her heart broke a little at the bittersweet feelings evoked by seeing such objects the husband had retained from his wife.

Several candelabras had been lit by servants earlier in the eve in preparation for the lord's retirement, and the fire crackled private secrets.

A perfect setting, in Michaela's mind, for what she hoped would be an intimate conversation.

“Please,” Lord Alan invited, dragging one of the stools out for her and then setting the candlestick on the small table. “Forgive me if I seem a bit…foolish. I've not had a lady in this room since…”

“I understand,” Michaela rushed to assure him as she sat. Thankfully, her bottom connected securely with the upholstered seat. “No need to apologize.” The lovely, lovely man…

Lord Alan joined her at the table with a quick, boyish smile. It fled his face in a blink. “I want to tell you why Lady Juliette visited me this evening.”

“Oh,
must
we talk about Lady Juliette?” The almost whining plea was out of Michaela's mouth before she could stop it, and she was mortified, even when Lord Alan smiled charmingly. “I am sorry. Do go on.”

Alan seemed to relax a bit then, and pulled from his belt the rolled parchment Michaela had seen earlier, and handed it to her.

Michaela unrolled the missive and let her eyes scan over the thousands of tiny, intricate letters covering the page. It would take her an hour to read it in its entirety.

Lord Alan took pity on her. “The gist of the thing is this: Lord Roderick Cherbon, my cousin, has a stipulation he must fulfill in order to fully inherit Cherbon demesne.”

“This says that?” Michaela questioned, and her eyes went to the page. She thought it odd Lord Cherbon would want such a private matter served up to his people for gossip.

“No. I say that, in confidence, to you,” Alan clarified. “It is why I announced months ago that there is a possibility that I could inherit in his place.”

“Oh,” Michaela said, giddy that Alan considered her enough to confide this bit of close information.

“The stipulation is that he must marry a lady of good family before his thirtieth birthday.”

“Oh, my,” Michaela gasped, not really caring, but wanting to show Lord Alan that she found anything he said riveting.

“The problem
is in
this missive, and is clear to anyone who would read it, especially in light of Lady Juliette's information. Apparently, my once-sought-after cousin is finding the bride search a bit more of a challenge than he likely thought it would be. May I?” Alan took the missive from her, shook it open, and began to skim with squinted eyes.

“Announcement this day of…yes, yes—ah! ‘Any unmarried lady of good, titled family who is in want of a husband should immediately report to Cherbon Castle. If Lord Roderick Cherbon finds such a woman agreeable after a period of no more than ninety days and can come to a mutual agreement of marriage, upon their wedding she will be legally granted one-fifth of Cherbon's holding to use at her own discretion. Please see Sir Hugh Gilbert upon arrival.'”

Michaela felt her eyes widen. “That certainly
is
strange,” she said carefully.

“Don't you see?” Alan said, leaning forward on his stool, and Michaela caught her breath at his closeness. “No one will marry him now—he's a beast! He's trying to
bribe
his way to the inheritance!”

“A beast?”

“
A beast
,” Alan reiterated. “He slinks about the castle with a walking stick and in a long black cloak, keeping his face hidden. He's frightened away each woman come to court him since his return to Cherbon. This missive only proves how close he is to losing the demesne.”

“I see,” Michaela said, although she did not. “What has this to do with me?”

“Your parents' taxes aren't the only ones in the land which can not be paid, Michaela,” Alan said with a wry smile, and her heart stopped beating for an instant when he used her given name. “If I do not inherit Cherbon, Roderick will demand my dues and I cannot pay him. This manor—your parents' land—will be forfeited, and Elizabeth and I will lose you.”

“Oh my heavens!” Michaela gasped. “Oh, no! I can't…” She stopped, took a deep breath. “What shall we do? You
must
inherit!”

He gave her a smile that nearly made the shock of his dire announcement worth it. “I know. And I have come up with an idea that will allow you to stay with us forever, if you wish.”

“Oh, yes! Of course, I wish! Do tell, my lord.”

“I have already set in motion plans for a grand feast at Tornfield in one month, and after that night, regardless of whether my cousin is successful in his search or not, we will be safe.” He paused. “Do you trust me, Michaela?” His words were like a caress.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Alan leaned even closer to her over the tabletop. “Elizabeth can not lose you.
I
can not lose you. You
do
wish to stay with us, don't you? Truly?”

“I do, certainly, I do.” She leaned in as well, her bosom biting into the table's edge, but she scarcely felt it. “More than anything.”

His lips hovered a scant inch from hers. “As do I.”

Alan's head moved closer.

Michaela leaned more heavily on the table and tilted her head.

The table toppled onto its side, knocking both would-be kissers to the floor and spilling the candle onto the rug.

Alan shouted, jumped to his feet nimbly, and stamped out the flames.

Michaela wanted to die, right there on the floor.

He helped her up with a shaky laugh. “Ah, well. Best not to get carried away in an improper manner, eh?”

“Ha-ha! Yes,” Michaela agreed.
No!
she screamed inside her head.
No, no, no! Let's get carried away. Please, let's!

But he was already walking her to the door. “Shall I escort you to your room?” Alan asked politely.

“There's no need for that,” Michaela reluctantly declined, trying not to let her eyes stray to the big bed at the far end of the room. “I know the way.”

“Of course you do.” Alan smiled. He paused, took her hand, and then leaned in to press his lips—his warm, soft lips!—to her cheek. “Good night, Michaela. I wish you the sweetest dreams.”

She gave him a genuine smile this time as he ushered her from the chamber. “Good night, my lord,” she sighed around her dazed smile, too late for Alan to hear though, as the door had already closed behind her.

Michaela skipped the whole way of the corridor to her chamber, and only tripped once.

But it didn't count because she was alone.

“I'm not going, Hugh.”

“Oh, Rick,
come on!
” Hugh Gilbert flopped into the wide armchair in Roderick's chamber. “We've not left Cherbon since our arrival. I'm bored out of my very skull. Do I not have a bit of distraction, I do fear I'll start digging out my own eyes for sport.”

“Shall I have a spoon fetched for you?”

“Witty tonight, are we?” Hugh threw himself from the chair once more and approached Roderick where he sprawled on the floor, stretching rather ineffectively on his own. Hugh dropped to one knee and pressed Roderick's left shoulder to the floor while he twisted his hip to the right, a hand on his thigh for added weight. “Relax your shoulders.”

“I am,” Roderick growled, the muscles of his back feeling like hammered iron along his spine.

“Well, try to relax them a bit more, then. All right, other side.” He helped Roderick to readjust. “Any matter, the invitation clearly stated that the feast is to be held partially to celebrate your homecoming. It's rather rude for the guest of honor to refuse.”

Roderick grunted. “I'm quite certain Alan Tornfield would prefer me dead upon some muddy field, now that he has chance to win Cherbon. A feast in my honor—horse shit.”

“Well, then, don't you at least want to see what he is truly about? Stand up—we'll work on balance now.”

“No, I don't.” Roderick struggled to his feet, slapping Hugh's hand away as he balanced on his good leg. Hugh handed him his broad sword to hold in his left hand. Roderick balanced it on its tip for a moment, to steady his swaying. “I could not care less what piddling scheme Alan thinks he's come upon. He won't take Cherbon.”

“He may, if you don't cease frightening off every eligible lady who darkens our door,” Hugh said testily. “All right then, sword out.” Roderick slowly raised the tip of the sword from the floor until it was perpendicular to his body. “Good, good, Rick—steady! Honestly, one would think you'd at least
try
to impress a woman the tiniest bit. It's not as if it's difficult to do, the poor creatures. A kind word, a smile. Must you always slink about the keep like some great, growling ogre?”

Roderick swayed and returned the sword tip to the floor to regain his balance and sent Hugh a black look. “How would you have me move about, Hugh? Shall I dance?”

“That
would
be refreshing.”

“Shut up.”

“
You
shut up. Once more with the sword on this side.” Hugh held his hands at the ready to catch Roderick should he fall. “It would not kill you to at least be cordial.”

“I've tried cordial, or have you forgotten?” The sword fell and rose again, slowly, but more steady in his right hand than it had been in months. Roderick felt a pang at the taunting memories he held of swinging this piece of metal as if it were a hollow wooden stick. “My attempts were wasted.”

“Your smiles were grimaces, your topics of conversation dour and macabre. You shout at the servants at all hours of the day and night. It's unsettling.”

“Are
you
unsettled by it?”

“Of course not. But I'm accustomed to it. Let's get your boots and we'll work on swing.”

Roderick lowered the tip of the heavy weapon and hopped backward to sit in the armchair just behind him while Hugh brought his boots. “Then the one who marries me shall also become accustomed to it.” He leaned his sword against the chair and began the daily struggle with his footwear.

“There is no one left to
get
accustomed to it,” Hugh nearly shouted, then dropped to one knee again. He sighed crossly. “Get off, I'll do it.”

“No.” Roderick slapped Hugh's hands away. “I can dress myself.”

“I never insinuated that you could not,” Hugh said. He watched Roderick struggle with his left boot. “Your thirtieth birthday is”—he paused, one thumb touching the fingertips of one hand—“one hundred ninety-two days away, Rick. What are we to do should you not marry?”

Roderick did not answer him, only grunted as at last the left boot slid fully up to his knee.

“Fine then. Let us forget this whole lot in England, Rick,” Hugh said quietly, emphatically. “To hell with Magnus. To hell with Alan Tornfield. To hell with
Cherbon!
There is no love lost between you and this land, and nothing left for me to lay claim to beyond debt. Together we can return to Constantinople and rebuild our army—your name is likened to a legend there for your bravery! Our fortunes can be reclaimed on our own terms! There we can be princes—
kings!
I don't know about you, but I've always fancied myself as royalty.”

Hugh let the bold statements hang in the silence for several moments while Roderick studied the floor between his boots. When Roderick still had no answer for his friend, Hugh continued.

“Here, all we have to look forward to, at best, is your unhappy marriage to some horse-faced, cast-off spinster woman. At worst, you won't marry at all and the two of us—as well as Leo—will be tossed out on our arses. What will become of him then, Rick? At least if you marry he has a chance of an inheritance. Would you have him a beggar child?”

“I won't let that happen, Hugh.”

“Then at least go to the feast at Tornfield tonight,” Hugh reasoned. “See what Alan is about. Mayhap if you employ but a tiny—
tiny
—bit of charm, you could find your future bride in a setting not so dreadful”—he waved a hand, indicating Roderick's dark and gloomy bedchamber—“as all this.”

Roderick thought upon the suggestion for several moments, but then shook his head. If he was going to be stared at, he preferred it be in his own home, where he could escape if he wished.

“No. I'll not change my mind. But—”

“Rick!”

“
You go
, Hugh, in my stead,” Roderick clarified. “Extend my regrets to my cousin and find out what you can.”

Hugh stared wide-eyed at Roderick, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. “Verily, Rick? You wish me to go?”

“I do. Most dreadfully, I do, if only to have a reprieve from your incessant nagging and physical torture upon my person.”

Hugh's face split into a wide grin, and Roderick felt a moment's guilt in realizing that Hugh rarely showed his teeth lately beyond a sarcastic smirk to anyone other than Leo.

“Smashing,” Hugh said, and shot to his feet. “Brilliant idea, Rick! I'll leave directly, and will return on the morrow.” Hugh seemed to be spinning thoughts in his head, speaking aloud but not really expecting a reply. “I shall wear the green—no,
blue
—tunic. And my red cape and boots. Or the buff…?”

“I'm certain you'll look very comely. Now, get out,” Roderick growled.

“But, what of the physical torture? We haven't finished your exercises.” Hugh frowned.

“If we continue, you'll not have time to ready yourself. I'm sure you wish to bathe.”

“God's teeth—you're right! I smell like a goatherd.” Hugh spun to the door then spun back to Roderick as if so caught up with excitement that he'd gone brainless. “But Leo—?”

“Send him to me before you depart. Surely we can stand each other's company for one evening.”

Hugh grew still, even in the whirlwind of anticipation. “He'll like that very much, Rick.”

Roderick waved him away and did not meet his eyes.

“I'll send him up in a thrice.” A pause. “You're certain you can—”

“I'm not completely helpless, Hugh.”

“Of course you're not,” Hugh said quietly, and Roderick felt a pinch of humiliation at the placating tone. “I've never, never thought that of you—how could I?” Hugh sighed when he received no answer. “I'll see you on the morrow, Rick—with gossip aplenty, I hope.”

 

Michaela pulled Elizabeth along the corridor behind the kitchens, both girls with their hands over their mouths to stifle the giggles—well, Michaela's giggles. No merry sound came from behind Elizabeth's hand, although her mouth was pulled deep into her cheeks in a grin and her eyes sparkled. They stopped behind a set of tall wooden shelves, just before the doorway to the noisy, smoky, fragrant kitchen.

Michaela turned her head to Elizabeth with a finger to her mouth, then she pulled on one ear and pointed toward the doorway.

Listen!

“—take six of us to move this cake. Merciful savior, I've never seen such a prideful thing. To think of all the foodstuffs wasted on such a frivolous—”

“Oh, pooh! 'Tis been a fair piece of time since the lord's been s'happy. Good for him, I say. Huzzah to the lord and his new bride.”

At Michaela's side, Elizabeth gripped her arm. Michaela turned to see the little girl's mouth hung open in a shocked O. Elizabeth snaked an arm about Michaela's waist as the two continued to listen.

“Huzzah, indeed. 'Tis scandalous, is what it is. I fail to see how he could just up and marry her, on this very night, with no time of betrothal!
Her!
”

“They've known each other long enough—why delay it, when all will be gathered tonight to witness it? And Lady Elizabeth is in sore want of a mother.”

A disgusted snort. “Not of that sort, I daresay. A nasty bit of work, that one.”

Elizabeth made as if to pull away from Michaela and charge through the doorway, but Michaela pulled her back.

“It is of no consequence what they say, Elizabeth,” Michaela whispered with a smile. “What do we care for what they think, eh? The only thing that matters is that my suspicions were correct—and now we can be together, like a real family, forever.”

The angry frown melted away from Elizabeth's face, to be replaced by a wondrous smile. She pulled away gently this time and did a slow spin with her skirts held out, her eyes closing briefly as if in rapture.

“You look beautiful,” Michaela whispered. “Like a princess.” And it was true. Michaela was doubly glad she'd created the new ensemble she herself now wore. Since Lady Juliette had stained her one good gown, and the lovely boon she'd won from the woman was delivered in pieces, Michaela had used a bit of imagination and combined the two. Now, her rose-colored satin skirt was quilted over with long, wide strips of the dark green velvet, strategically and evenly covering the stains. The colors alternated like a maypole and Michaela had to admit that the effect was striking. With the pieces of the green bodice, she'd fashioned a beautiful short, lace-up vest to go over her own gown, allowing her long, wide rose sleeves to show.

For the first time in her life, Michaela was thankful that her family had been too poor to employ a full-time seamstress.

Michaela hoped Lady Juliette had been invited to the feast so that she could see the rather ingenious use of the gown she'd sought to cheat Michaela out of.

It would be Michaela's wedding gown.

Elizabeth stopped her twirling and stepped close to Michaela. She placed one small palm first over her own heart, and then reached out to touch Michaela's chest.

Michaela felt emotion well into her eyes. “I love you, too, Elizabeth,” she whispered in a cracking voice. Then the faint sounds of strings being plucked into tune reached her ears and she hastily wiped at her eyes while donning a bright smile. “Let's carry on to the hall—the musicians have arrived and I don't wish to miss one moment of this feast.”

Michaela just knew it was going to be the greatest night in the whole of her life.

 

The meal dragged on what seemed like forever, but Michaela didn't mind in the least. She was enjoying sitting at the lord's table, Elizabeth between her and Alan, the flood of the guests poured into Tornfield's hall admiring the three of them.

And her heart did an evil, prideful little dance to see Lady Juliette of Osprey indeed sitting at one of the front tables. Michaela made sure to acknowledge the wretch with a slight nod and sweet smile. To her surprise, Lady Juliette returned the gesture and even added an admiring glance at Michaela's vest.

Of course she will be only pleasant to me now
, Michaela reasoned.
I will be her better, and the lady of the keep. Soon she will be a guest in
my
home.

And it was then that Michaela decided to forgive Lady Juliette for all her past slights, and she felt a burden she'd not known she was carrying slide from her back.

Agatha Fortune was right—forgiveness was a happy balm to the soul.

As if to affirm the adage, Michaela's gaze swept to where her parents were seated—at a table of honor, with Lady Juliette, no less. Michaela'd had no time to speak with her mother or father, but she made sure to wave several times and blow her father a discreet kiss from one finger.