Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] (3 page)

Allis shook her head. “You, sister, are incorrigible! Now, you had best hurry along. I daresay Connor’s down in the hall tapping his toe and anxious to be gone, thinking dark thoughts about chattering females.”

“Very well.” Isabelle’s turn was almost a twirl as she pivoted on her heel. Her bright red dress, as vibrant as holly berries against the snow, swirled about her long and slender legs. “Off I go to buy some ribbons.”

She paused at the door and gave her sister a saucy look before she waved a farewell. “And who knows? Perhaps I shall meet a marriageable man while I’m at it!”

T
he handsome, dark-haired lord of Bellevoire tapped his right toe as he stood beside the empty hearth in the great hall. The oak beams holding up the slate roof were twenty feet above the floor of the huge chamber, and every inch of stonework was decorated with carving.

It was not an intimate space, but it was rarely empty. At present, servants of both sexes talked and laughed. Women swept the old rushes that covered the stone floor to make way for new. Some men were taking down one of the tapestries to have the dirt and soot beaten from it. A few foot soldiers sat on a bench and leaned back against the wall, discussing the virtue of maces over battle-axes.

Isabelle smiled when Connor saw her approaching. She was sure that once they were at the market, he would allow himself to be distracted by village business and leave the purchasing of ribbons to her.

Today, her brother-in-law was dressed in his usual plain clothing of thigh-length black tunic, white shirt and brown breeches that hugged his muscular thighs. His breeches were tucked in leather boots, and he wore a simple leather belt, without his sword. Unlike most nobles, he did not sport the Norman style of hair, cut round his head like a bowl. Connor had always worn his hair long, and there was nothing feminine about it. In the dim light of the hearth on a winter’s night, or the bonfires of Midsummer’s Eve, he looked almost savage. If there had ever been a time he’d stirred her blood, it was then—but not for long, for he was too merry a man to inspire dark, exciting fantasies, especially when he was married to her beloved sister.

Connor broke into a grin when she reached him. “Allis has told you what I am to buy and that you are to make sure I get the right color,” he said with a knowing look.

“Yes.”

“She has no trust in my taste,” he replied with a woeful sigh as he held out his arm to escort her from the hall.

“She has no faith in your ability to select the right color,” Isabelle corrected as she slipped her arm through his. “Most women would not expect the overlord of a castle to know about such things. Weapons and defenses and perhaps how to dance, but not ribbons and fabric and hairstyles. It is enough that you must pay for them.”

“Aye, that I must,” Connor replied as they strolled through the large oaken doors out into the warm air of the summer morning and down the steps to the cobblestoned courtyard. Servants bustled about here, too, filling buckets, carrying various items from the storehouse to the kitchen, which was attached to the hall by a corridor. Others were mucking out the stables. A troop of soldiers prepared to mount and ride out to patrol the perimeter of Bellevoire. There had been peace in the land for some time, but Norse marauders were not unknown. The wide river had long held an attraction for the seafaring brigands, and their shallow-hulled vessels could come even this far inland upon it. Men outside the law who preyed on travelers were also a concern, for any road that led to London tempted such bandits.

“Wouldn’t you rather I chose them by myself?” Isabelle asked. “Then if they are not quite right, you cannot be blamed.”

Connor gave her a grateful look. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your offer. If she wanted a sword or a dagger, I would feel confident, but ribbons…”

They continued across the drawbridge over the dry moat, their footfalls echoing slightly. Connor nodded a greeting to a few tradesmen who were bringing foodstuffs to the castle.

“The market is going to be crowded,” he observed as they sauntered toward the green. “Bellevoire is growing every day, it seems.”

So it was, ever since word had gone out that the greedy, cruel Baron DeFrouchette had been killed and his estate given to a new overlord. As it became apparent that Sir Connor was a much more just and much less greedy master, more people came to trade, and to stay.

Leaning on his arm, her body close to his, Isabelle slyly whispered into her brother-in-law’s ear. “God willing, it will increase by one more come the spring.”

“Be quiet about that,” Connor laughingly commanded, also in a whisper. “I am having enough difficulty not shouting it from the battlements. Allis will have our heads if we spoil the grand surprise at the harvest feast.”

“I’ll try not to, and so must you. She says you are fussing over her so much, people will guess.” She patted his arm sympathetically. “I am delighted, too, but we should try to do as she wishes.”

“I will,” he conceded with a genial bow.

Arriving at the green, they surveyed the crowd of people, dogs, horses, carts and hastily assembled stalls.

“Which is the merchant from London with the ribbons Allis likes?” Connor asked.

Isabelle withdrew her arm from his and looked around. “I think the one at the southern edge of the green,” she said, nodding at the slightly familiar wagon. “Why don’t you leave that to me? I shall select them and later you can go to the merchant to collect them, and pay.”

“Excellent idea,” Connor said, his relief at being spared the selection process evident.

She nodded toward a plump, bearded man well dressed in a long tunic of dark blue, with a wide leather belt about his ample waist. The fellow bustled toward them as if he were under attack. “Here comes the reeve all in a bother to speak to you, for I doubt Bartholomew has business with me. I suspect he more likely wishes to ‘have a word’ with you.”

Her lips twitched, and so did Connor’s. They didn’t want to laugh, for Bartholomew was nearly upon them, and he took his duties very seriously. On the other hand, he began every single conversation with Connor with those words.

Red-faced, the reeve came to a panting halt. “If I might have a word, my lord.”

Isabelle had to turn away to hide her smile. “If you’ll excuse me, Connor,” she managed to get out without laughing. She hurried away toward the cart at the other end of the market.

It was not difficult for her to make her way through the crowd. People tended to make way for the nobility, even if they were friendly nobility, and Isabelle was well liked.

Nevertheless, their deference made Isabelle feel very much alone, as it always did. She wasn’t distanced from the villagers and the servants of the castle only by her rank. As the chatelaine’s younger sister, she had no real place here, except as guest.

Still, her situation could be worse—much worse, she reminded herself. She was safe with her sister and brother-in-law. The village and estate were thriving, the weather fair, Allis with child. Their younger brother Edmond was visiting Connor’s brother, Caradoc, at his estate in Wales, and by all accounts, enjoying himself. The troubles with DeFrouchette and his coconspirators seemed over for good. Connor had feared repercussions and revenge because Lord Oswald, the man who had planned the treachery, had escaped, his power broken and his money given to the crown. But after three years, they dared to hope he had fled far away, never to return.

As for her own future, surely she was too young to worry that she could never be as happy as Allis.

As Isabelle drew near the cart, a slender, brown-haired man she had never seen before appeared beside it as if by magic. He began to call out to passersby to see his wares, and when he saw her, a merry smile dimpled his cheeks. “Ah, my lady!” he cried with a Gascon accent. “You must come and see what I have, for I can tell you have great taste and a discerning eye! I assure you, my wares are of the finest quality, all the way from Marseilles.”

If she had not been headed for him anyway, his smile alone would have drawn her to him.

His brown eyes were like those of a particularly friendly dog as she studied the selection, which seemed as good as the London man’s. “I’m looking for something in pale blue.” She picked one up. “This will do, I think. I am to pick out some ribbons, and Sir Connor will come by later to collect them and pay you for them—at the price
we
agree upon.”

“Ah, the great overlord of Bellevoire himself!” the peddler cried as he put his hand over his heart and bowed. “I shall be honored.”

“There will be no deceiving him about the amount he is to pay, for I shall inform him of the sum we agreed upon before he arrives.”

The slender man’s eyes widened with surprise, and his expression became doleful. “
Oui
, my lady, of course I shall not try to change the price. Indeed, if I did, then you would be angry with me, and that I could not bear.”

Isabelle thought he could bear her anger very well if he thought he could get more money from Connor. Despite his smiles and dimples and his
joie de vivre
, something told her this man was not quite what he seemed, and even the most charming manner could hide a cheat.

A green ribbon caught her eye, and she moved toward it. “This is very pretty.”

She lifted it up and let the morning light play upon it. It shimmered and danced, green seemingly tinged with gold.

“It is more beautiful next to your pretty face. I have even more lovely things in a box in my cart. Would you care to see?”

Since many merchants kept their best wares away from the general public, who could not afford them anyway, this did not surprise Isabelle. “Yes, please,” she said, eager to see more of the wonderful ribbon.

He led her around the cart, and she found herself in an alley between two buildings. “I don’t see another—”

A tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a ragged cloak, his face shrouded in a hood, stepped out of the shadows.

“Good day, my lady,” he said in a low, deep and shockingly familiar voice.

A shaft of fear pierced her, taking her very breath away.

She whirled around. The peddler blocked the entrance to the alley, and suddenly a strong hand clapped over her mouth while another went around her waist, pulling her back against a body as solid as the stones of the castle. Kicking and struggling like a trapped animal, she was dragged further back into the alley.

The hand of the man holding her shifted. She twisted her head, then bit down on the tender skin between his thumb and palm.

The man growled a curse. His hold loosened, but not enough for her to break away. He stuck his bleeding hand into his mouth while his arm held her firmly clasped against him. She managed to turn in his grasp, and she struck him as hard as she could. He didn’t let go, but she knocked the hood back from his face—and stared, dumbstruck with horror and disbelief.

She was face-to-face with the living image of Rennick DeFrouchette. “Y-you’re dead!” she stammered in a hoarse whisper.

Something struck her head. Pain radiated, and, as the hated face before her swam and dimmed, she desperately tried to call for help.

But no sound escaped her as she fell to the ground.

Panting, Alexander looked down at the young woman’s crumpled body, and he tried to calm his racing heart. Given what he had seen and heard of well-bred young women, he had not anticipated a struggle of any kind. He had expected Lady Allis to be so shocked by the realization that she was about to be kidnapped that she would be virtually paralyzed with fear. Indeed, he had more than half expected her to swoon the moment she realized she was in danger. He had never, ever, thought she would fight back as energetically as she had.

“Mon Dieu,”
Denis whispered, the piece of wood he had used to strike her limp in his hand. “What a wildcat.”

Alexander nodded.

“I know she was not to be harmed, but I had to hit her.”

Alexander could not fault Denis as he crouched down and examined the bump on the side of the woman’s head, but he didn’t want her dead or injured. He wanted her alive, and fit to be ransomed. “I don’t think she’s badly hurt.”

Indeed, he was rather sure she wasn’t. He had seen many a man injured while working or training, and her wound looked superficial. Still, any injury that rendered one unconscious could not be completely dismissed. “We can’t be sure until she wakes up.”