Once Upon a Romance 02 - As The Last Petal Falls (14 page)

By her fourth night with Connelly, she was so tired she probably should have slept through anything, but instead she lay awake, stewing. She hadn’t seen Fain MacTíre since she’d walked away from him in the still room, and that was starting to irritate her. Of course, she was mad at him. But she had questions that needed answers, and mad or not, she knew he was the man to ask.

She didn’t
want
to see him. Of course she didn’t. That would be ridiculous. But
he
should want to see
her
. Enough to brave her displeasure and seek her out. The fact that he hadn’t was… vexing. How could she demand answers of him if she never
spoke
to him? It would ruin all the drama of her last words to him if
she
went in search of
him
. She hadn’t even mentioned him since the morning that Marlplot had woken her up. She didn’t want anyone to know that she was thinking of him, wondering all the time if she would see him.

But she was. Every time someone entered a room where she stood, Vivienne would hold her breath, waiting to see if it was MacTíre. She listened to footsteps in the hall, trying to hear his tread, and when voices echoed down the stone corridors she would hold quiet and concentrate, to check if his voice was among them. It never was, and the surge of disappointment she felt made her stomach ache.

She
missed
the ridiculous, suspicious, overbearing lout. She wanted him to find her, see how tired she was, pick her up, and take her to bed. Then he could tuck her in and read stories to her until she fell asleep. If only he didn’t think such nasty things about her. If only he
trusted
her.

Then maybe she could trust him.

Belle hadn’t seen him in three days, but that didn’t mean that Fain hadn’t seen her. Both Marlplot and Billy Notter had kept him apprised of her whereabouts, and he had, several times, placed himself where he could watch her come and go without being observed. He’d been impressed with the work she had done in her new room, but neither she nor Marlplot had thought to check the chimney before lighting the fire. Once they’d left to eat at mid-day he’d worked quickly, raking the hearth coals into an iron bucket so he could sweep the chimney out. It was a good thing he did; an old bird’s nest had been lodged up high, and could have caused a fire in the keep if it had been left there. Once the fireplace was safe to use he dumped the coals back in the grate and threw a few more logs on, and then slipped away again before they came back.

A few days later Connelly caught him, watching her trying to scrub out the giant cast iron pot.

“If ye wish ta see the lassie, why not go speak ta her like a grown man?”

“I don’t want to speak to her. I just want to make sure she’s behaving herself.”

“Oh, an’ Marlplot, Master Notter, the Shapherds, an’ I canna keep one woman out o’ trouble without yer assistance?”

“I’m not sure.” Fain spoke dryly. “Each and every one of you seems taken with the lass. If she asked you to help her catch a venomous serpent and slip it into my bed as a joke, I half believe you’d go along with it.”

“Be fair, man. I’d only do it if I had the anti-toxin ta hand.”

Fain rolled his eyes. “I’m serious. You all act as though she’s a harmless, charming young miss.”

“Charmin’, ta be sure. But only a fool would go thinkin’ she was harmless.”

“You agree with me, then?” Fain was startled.

“Not a bit, man, yer daft in the head. That lass wouldna poison ye nor anyone. But that dinna make her harmless. Any more than a friendly wolf is harmless.” Connelly cocked an eyebrow at him, then sauntered into the kitchen.

Fain stayed where he was, partially hidden in the corridor, and watched as Connelly spent the next half hour regaling the kitchen workers with a story of his boyhood friend, a stolen goat, and the local herder’s wrath. More men drifted by him, headed for the warmth and camaraderie. With the storm outside, there was little to do for those men not on sentry duty, and they tended to congregate in the kitchen, entertaining each other through the dreary hours. A few nodded to him as they passed him in the corridor, but made no mention of him joining them. Fain always held back from their gatherings.

The Shapherds passed out mug after mug of tea as the men pulled chairs and benches closer to the fire and bent an ear to Connelly.

Most of them had met Isabelle by now. They all glanced at her occasionally, as if to refresh themselves with the sight of a real, flesh and blood woman. Even as she was, dressed in his now
completely
filthy old shirt and breeches, scrubbing away at an old pot, she was lovely. Fain made a note to himself that, during the next clear spell, the men who hadn’t been on leave for a while should go. He didn’t want any of them making a fool of themselves over the lass, just because they’d been pent up too long on their own.

“…couldna let poor Mickey take the blame, even if ’twas his fool idea ta begin with, so I told Master McLean that I’d seen that goat taken by a Fir Darrig, an’ the bloody old sot told me ta prove it!”

Fain watched Belle sit back on her heels and laugh along with the others at the preposterous story. He knew how she laughed. He’d watched her, while she was bed bound. First her eyes sparkled in amusement, and she wrinkled her nose as though she were trying to hold back the giggles. Then peals of laughter would escape her lips. He couldn’t see from his spot by the door, but he knew the way she’d bite her lip just briefly when she was done. He knew the delighted smile she’d give; he’d caused it frequently enough himself.

Gods be merciful, what was wrong with him?

When the general mirth subsided, he saw her glare blackly at the porridge pot and go back to scraping at the sides with her fingernails. Matt Shapherd saw her and poked his brother, Marcus, and though both men sniggered, they quickly moved to offer her a wad of rough wool and a scraping tool. Once they showed her how to use them, she tackled the pot again, grimly holding it in place with her feet so that her good hand was free to scrub.

She looked tired. It was more than her illness and the unfamiliar work, he thought; perhaps she wasn’t sleeping well in front of Connelly’s fire. Well, that was only fair. He wasn’t sleeping well in his own bed. The pillows smelled like her. He’d finally fallen asleep last night after promising himself that, as soon as the new batch of soap was ready, he was going to wash his bedding.

He wasn’t sure it was going to help, though. When he slept he dreamed of her. Snatches of her days, moments he’d spied upon, and also things that had never happened, things he’d never allow his mind to dream of when he was awake. Belle in his arms, head laid gently on his chest. Sometimes the dream ended when she stabbed him in the heart with a black blade, and sometimes it ended when she stretched up to kiss him, drowning them both in passion. Either way he woke up with his heart racing, and lay awake, staring at the ceiling, fighting off memories of her laughing eyes as she lounged in his bed.

He watched her lug the pot over to Matt Shapherd and present it with barely restrained pride. Matt examined it closely and nodded his head, and the dignified Miss Wellesley gave a little hop for joy. Shapherd chuckled and waved her off, and she dashed down the corridor towards the laundry room, presumably to rinse the grime off her hands and face. Fain watched her go and then shook his head. He was being an idiot. He needed to stop watching this woman; it was only making his dreams worse.

Or better. Depending on how you looked at it. But either way was trouble.

He started to go, and then caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Simon Legrey was following Miss Wellesley down the hallway. What business did he have with her? Fain had never cared much for Simon, but had allowed him to join the band when Legrey had arrived, much like Belle, half frozen outside the keep. Men that Fain knew and trusted had vouched for him, but there was always the chance that they could be misled. Perhaps Fain had uncovered a clue to the supposed Miss Wellesley. He crept down the laundry corridor on silent feet. If he was going to learn something, he needed to be unnoticed.

Vivienne reluctantly lathered up the very last of Connelly’s soap. She hoped the quick set would be done soon. She didn’t want to have to go dirty, not with the work she’d been doing. The water in the wash bucket was clean and fresh, and she plunged her face directly in. She’d found it next to impossible to rinse her face with only one hand, so immersion seemed the only answer. Of course, it left her hair wet and bedraggled around her face, but that was a small price to pay.

She flung her face back and wiped the water from her eyes with her newly cleaned left hand. Rivulets ran down her cheeks, and she quickly twisted as much hair as she could back into the wrecked braid on the back of her head. Most of it would stay until it dried; then it would fall in a dirty, matted curtain back in front of her eyes. She couldn’t
wait
to have clean, combed hair again. She lifted her hand one last time, trying to secure everything as well as possible.

Two arms came around from behind her. The right one moved swiftly, covering her mouth with a large, beefy hand, while the left one snaked under her breasts, drawing her back against the body of her assailant. She screamed, but the sound was all but completely muffled, and she heard a low voice in her ear.