Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (13 page)

Allen smiled at her with sympathy. “Kate, I will not make
empty assurances. But this I promise you—we shall all be praying night and day. I know that God will see us through this and give us strength.”

Although he could not assure them of what they wished, his short speech seemed to rally the young women. They both sat up straighter and wiped off their faces.

Cedric stood. “I would like to volunteer to search for a new location. I always was the champion at hiding games.”

Allen chuckled at the reminder that once upon a time they had all been happy, carefree children playing together. “That you were, my friend. Excellent idea. And Robert will go with you, of course.”

“And take young Gilbert,” Jane suggested. “He’s clever as can be, and I’ve noticed how a child often sees the world with different eyes.”

That familiar peace filled Allen’s chest. “Perfect. That should do. The rest of us have a lot of work before us today.”

“But can we not do anything at all for Merry?” James clenched his hands so hard that his knuckles turned white. “We have to try something.”

“Pray and plan,” Allen said. “My guess is we shall need to find a way into the castle without getting our necks wrung. We will never overtake the armed guards on brute strength.”

“Ah,” said Robert, “but let us not forget. We are the cunning Ghosts of Farthingale Forest. We will do this thing, for Merry’s sake.”

Cedric rubbed his palms together. His eyes sparkled. “I know who can get into the castle with little explanation.”

“Do not say it,” Jane warned, wagging a finger at him.

“Oh, I think I will.” A grin spread across Cedric’s face.

Allen felt that inner nudge of reassurance. “Cedric, I think you might finally get your wish. And I’ve been working on that
new set of tumbling tricks with Sadie these past days. She’s quite impressive.”

“Ho!” Cedric stood and punched the air. “We will be a troupe of traveling performers at last.”

The others began to buzz with the excitement of it all.

A lute in the corner of the room that Jane oft used to quiet the children caught Allen’s gaze, and a plan began to form in his mind. For now they would make sure the children were safe and that Merry was indeed held prisoner in the castle.

But if all the pieces fell into place, his scheme just might work.

Several days after her capture, Merry sat gazing out the window once again. Staring over the treetops on a dreary and overcast afternoon, wondering what mission her men might be on. Had they moved to a new hideaway deeper in the forest? Had the little girls cried when told they must leave their home yet again?

How she hated being helpless. She wanted to scream, punch something, smash something. . . . But she exercised restraint, as always.

Her life in the tower had fallen into a miserable sort of monotony. She looked about at the books, quills, and journal that Timothy had supplied her with. Bribes, or an attempt to keep her out of trouble? A weaving loom sat in the corner with a tapestry barely started, and a lute lay unused upon her bed. Most of the time she sat staring out this window, other than during her daily visit from Timothy, when he would lecture and cajole as she endured in stone-cold silence.

Matilda started up a tune again from the corner. A happy song of spring that Merry recalled from her childhood, when she still believed in new life and dreams of romance. The maid
had proven to be the one comforting aspect of her otherwise maddening existence. Today she worked on resizing the apricot gown from the trunk, which had proven far too large for Merry’s slight frame.

Perhaps her captors thought blood-drenched apricot silk would somehow look more shocking whipping in the wind than the blue velvet as she hung from a spike upon the city walls.

She peered down at the castle courtyard again, looking for any means by which she might escape. Any lapse in castle security. Any stranger who might come to her aid. So far, her only idea had been that, if she had a long enough rope together with a bow and arrow, she might shoot the arrow tied to the rope into a support beam of the building just beyond the wall. Given a firmly set arrow, complete darkness, and a lazy guard, she might be able to use the bow to slide down the rope and over the wall.

But she had none of those supplies.

She perused the guard staff again. That one by the gate never wavered, never closed his eyes. Unlike the young soldier near the entrance portal, who appeared to often wander off into his own dreams. But of the guards beyond her door, she knew little.

Then she heard it—the sound of a crested lark. A lone figure in a dun-colored mantle and hood stood beneath her. He had passed by her window three times now, but she had not dared to hope. The figure lifted his face and pushed back the hood only a bit.

Allen! His waving, sandy hair and handsome features had never appeared so precious to her. If he were not thirty feet beneath her, she might have kissed him right then and there.

They had found her! They were planning something. If anyone could plot a way to get her out of this place, the shrewd Ghosts of Farthingale Forest could. Hope swelled in her chest, a soft, warm tide battering against her cold stone of a heart. Melting it and reminding her not to give up while a chance yet remained.

She pressed a hand to her mouth to cover the smile she could not hold at bay.

He looked to and fro. The observant guard on the gate was occupied checking an entering cart. With the stealth of the legendary ghosts, he tossed a rock up to her. She reached out and snatched it in one neat, silent move, even as he pulled up his hood and slipped away.

Restraint, stealth, and anonymity had worked in their favor once again. They would prevail, and Merry would escape.

She tucked the rock—with note attached—into her sleeve and strolled to the bed, where she hid it behind an open book and read.
“Find a way
to be at supper in the great hall tomorrow. We
are coming. Never fear!!!”

Supper in the great hall. Would Timothy let her out of this room? Surely not, considering the way she had been treating him. Perhaps the time had come to switch tactics.

She surveyed the room again. He had done everything in his power to make her comfortable. His provision of the comforts of home—her old home—had touched her. He seemed sincere in his desire to help her—even more sincere in his frustration over his inability to do so. Perhaps if she cooperated, used a bit of honey as bait, she might persuade him to take her to supper in the castle great hall. When he next visited, he would be met by a different Merry.

But for now, what she needed more than anything was tactical information. And she knew where she would get it.

After tucking the rock beneath her mattress, she sighed and twirled her hair about her finger, as if pining over a lover. “Matilda, what can you tell me of this Timothy Grey? Captor or not, he is a handsome man. Do you not think so?”

Matilda ceased her humming but continued sewing. “What of him, m’lady? Seems ye know him better than us all.”

“Not so. I met him during childhood, but this man is not the boy I remember. What is his position here?” She sat forward on the bed, propping her chin upon her folded hands.

“I suppose there’s no harm in telling ye. He began as a scribe, but m’lord took a fancy to him. He’s in charge while Lord Wyndemere is gone, he is, and he’s vowed to capture the ghosts in his absence.”

Just as Merry hoped, three days and a bit of friendship had loosened the woman’s tongue.

“Quite the ambitious young man, that one is,” Matilda continued. “Ninth child was never good enough for him. Oh no. Everyone’s been speaking of it. Sharp as a whip. Some say he planned to marry an heiress, but she died. I can see how that might confuse a body.”

As she suspected. Timothy had wanted power, wealth, and position. Never Merry herself. And now he would use her in a different way to achieve them. She had been a fool to ever think he loved her. He loved only her dowry. But she would not make that mistake again.

Matilda returned to her humming, so Merry dared another question before she lost the woman entirely.

Merry tapped a finger to her temple. “So, does he believe I am one of the ghosts? Is that what people are saying? Is that why he has kept me here?”

Matilda stuck her needle into the dress and turned her full attention to Merry. “Well, now, they’re not supposed to know anyone is here at all. Except of course everyone does—castle gossip and whatnot. Not from me, mind ye. They’re saying ye were a prisoner of the ghosts, and Mister Grey done stole ye away. That ye’re a lady, and he’s keeping your name a secret to preserve your reputation. They’ve said a bit about how the ghosts must have used ye wrong, but I won’t go into those particulars.
Somehow I suspect that part ’tis not true. Ye have such a sweet innocence about ye.”

Matilda was astute, yet such rumors about the castle could earn Merry sympathy. She pondered how she might answer the woman. In this case, she could speak the truth.

Her maidenly virtue might not have been taken from her, but almost everything else that mattered had. “I have suffered much in my life, Matilda. Much has been stolen from me. Do not mistake a pretty face for a life of ease. Many never bother to look beyond a set of striking features to the haunted soul beneath. It is a curse at times.”

Consternation twisted Matilda’s pleasant face. She put down the gown and crossed to Merry, kneeling before her. She cupped Merry’s chin in her palm and stared deep into her eyes.

Merry needed contrive no performance. She only thought for a moment upon her mother, upon her father and brother, upon the charred remains of the castle and village she had seen from a distant hilltop.

“Ye speak true, child.” Tears filled Matilda’s eyes to match the ones in Merry’s. “I saw only your spitfire ways. And as ye said, your lovely face. I never paused to look further. I’ve spent much of my life envying those with more money, more power, more beauty, but I’ve suffered little enough pain. Have me a good husband, I do, and children and even my first grandbaby. I’ve lost less than many, I suppose.”

“Pain and sorrow are no respecters of persons.” Merry sighed. She had given this woman enough of a glimpse into her tormented soul to garner some sympathy. Now she must get ahold of herself before she fell to pieces. “Each morning I must gather every ounce of courage and strength within me, else I shall never make it. If I seem a spitfire, I cannot afford to be otherwise.”

“I see that.” Matilda cleared her throat and swiped at her
eyes. She moved back to her own chair and picked up the dress, but then crumpled it upon her lap and turned her attention to Merry again. “Tell me how I might ease your pain, m’lady.”

Merry bit her lip, as if she must ponder for a moment. “I am going mad in this tower. I am going to beg Timothy Grey to let me attend supper in the great hall. If he asks your opinion, would you please support me in this?”

“Of course. I’ll have a word with him myself, I will. He can’t expect to keep ye locked up here forever.” She eyed the door warily and dropped her voice. “I suspect he’s wanting to use ye as bait for those ghosts. But I see no harm in a meal or two on that account.”

Nor did Merry. If indeed he intended to use her as bait, he must know her men would never consider storming the tower. But they might take a chance in the crowded great hall.

This time she felt no need to hide her smile.

Timothy frowned and raked his fingers through his hair as he twisted his way up the spiraling staircase of the dimly lit tower. Merry Ellison! Had ever a more exasperating woman walked the face of God’s green earth? Today would be his fourth day questioning her.

Somehow he must coax her down to the castle proper for supper tonight. Recalling well how Merry loved both physical activity and music, he had arranged for dancing, along with her favorite dishes. With some good food and wine in her, the right atmosphere about her, perhaps he could cajole her into a better mood and win her trust once again.

“Good day to you, Mister Grey,” said White from his perch atop the stairs.

“And may God go with you.” Bradbury chanced an impertinent wink.

“May He, indeed.” Timothy sighed. “Say a prayer for me, if you will.”

“She’s a tough little filly.” Bradbury grinned. “I’ve rather come to like her myself.” He turned to unlock the door, and the guards parted to allow Timothy past.

Timothy squinted when he entered the bright room after the dark tower staircase. Thank goodness the guards stood at his back, lest Merry take this moment of weakness to attack.

But when his eyes cleared, she sat docilely by the window, embroidering a small kerchief, with the lute he had provided at her side. The Merry of his memories. The same soft brown hair he remembered. The strong cheekbones and stubborn chin. The delicate lips relaxed into a gentle upturn.

“God give you good day, my lady.”

“I am not a lady, and well you know it.”

The first words she had spoken to him in days! And she looked him directly in the eye with no malice, nor even with feigned innocence. Rather, this time, he spied resignation in her eyes.

He closed the door behind him. “So are you willing to speak with me today?”

“Yes. I am ready. You are right. I was never intended for that rough life in the forest.”

He had been lecturing her so for days.

She brushed a finger over the shoulder of her velvet gown. “But please, do not leave me to rot in this tower another moment. I cannot bear it.”

“She speaks true, m’lord,” said the serving woman from the corner.

In his shock at Merry’s cooperation this day, he had forgotten to excuse her maid.

“Everyone knows she’s here,” the servant continued. “A
mysterious noblewoman captured by the ghosts. No use hiding her away any longer.”

Timothy rubbed his temple. He had intended to talk Merry into taking supper in the great hall, so why then did he feel as though he were being connived in some way?

“I . . . yes, well . . .” What were these two about? “Thank you for your opinion, Matilda. You are dismissed now, and please close the door on your way out.”

“Yes, m’lord.” The maid did as instructed, leaving Timothy alone in the room with the crafty, and potentially dangerous, little lady.

He studied her in her blue velvet dress upon her chair. She looked the perfect picture of domestic nobility, down to the embroidery loop in her hands.

“I see you have found something to occupy your time.”

“Do you like it?” She stared up at him hopefully, holding the kerchief before him.

Upon the fabric was a rough outline of the Greyham coat of arms, featuring a falcon and a shield crossed by two swords. He smiled and reached to touch it. “You remembered.”

“I thought it might be a peace offering between us, but I have not finished yet. Perhaps it shall be done by the time you take me down to supper?” She formed her mouth into a silly little smile, part entreaty and part jest, as she blinked her doe-like eyes at him.

He shook his head at her antics. “You are never dull, Merry. I concede to that.”

“I shall wear a veil and remain your mysterious noblewoman, but I cannot abide another day locked in this tower.”

“Perhaps we should deal with first matters first.” He grabbed the maid’s chair and swept it across the room, seating himself astride, as if it were a horse. Facing Merry, he leaned his chin upon the back of the chair. “Tell me of the ghosts.”