Suzanne Robinson (30 page)

“By God’s entrails,” Morgan said. “I must have been born under an inauspicious star to have to endure the rantings of this lady of mischief. Think you I have leisure to skulk about this keep? I’ve a murderous French spy to catch.”

“Then catch him, sirrah.”

“The devil take you,” Morgan said. Then he chuckled. “No, I’ll do the taking.”

He took a step toward her. Pen scowled wetly at him, but refused to move. He glanced at her heaving breasts, gave her another of his maddening smiles, and walked past her.

“And where, pray tell, are you going?”

He tossed a glance at her over his shoulder. “To the kitchens. I can’t hunt the priest in this storm. I’m hungry. I’m going to eat, and no Twistle is going to taint my food with her malignant potions.”

He sauntered out of the well room. Onlookers shrank away as he passed. She stood shivering and listening until she heard a door slam. Then she trudged to her chamber. Nany awaited her. She’d stoked the fire and had hot water and dry clothing at hand.

Pen was so agitated, she didn’t notice what Nany was doing until the woman pinned a cap on the back of her head. Pen reached around and felt the cap. Her fingers touched silk and pearls.

“Nany, what has betaken you? I need no fanciful garb.”

Pen glanced down at her gown and kirtle and beheld more crimson and pearl-shaded samite. While the storm battered the room’s closed shutters, her fingers lifted the glossy silk as she fixed a suspicious gaze upon Nany.

“What are you about?”

Nany’s backside presented itself to her as the woman gathered washing cloths and linens from the floor and mumbled her answer.

“What say you?” Pen asked.

Turning around, her face flushed from exertion, Nany spoke over a pile of cloths. “There be no harm in adornment.”

“When have I pranced about this castle in such raiment?” Pen paused, then gasped. “It’s because Lord St. John is here, isn’t it?”

Nany dumped her load of cloths outside the chamber door, then found her ever-present ale cup and took a deep sip. Pen waited without speaking and continued to blast Nany with an accusing stare.

“Weeeeeell,” Nany said. She glanced at the bed, a clothing chest, the floor. “Oh, very well. You be in need of a husband, mistress.” Nany hurried over to Pen, touched her sleeve, and lowered her voice. “Your honor’s in need of restoring, and now that we know he’s a rich young lord, we must have him for you.”

Pen shook off Nany’s hand. “God’s patience! What is this turnabout?”

“I’ve had time to ruminate. A maid who’s no longer a maid has to be sensible, mistress.”

“Nany, go away.”

“But what about—”

“Out of my sight.”

Nany scurried out of the room.

“Traitor,” Pen called out as the door shut.

Soon Pen was huddled in a chair by the fireplace, toes curled with fury inside her slippers. Her anger, already sizzling from Nany’s suggestion, burst into flame again as she contemplated Morgan St. John. She wished she could howl as loud as the wind that raced around the keep.

He had the effrontery to accuse her of wanting him. He was trying to punish her for mistakes she’d made honestly, and now she feared he wanted to do so by making her his leman. Assuredly he was above her in rank and birth, but that gave him no right to demean her.

Why had God cursed her with his presence again?
He was stranded on her island because of this storm, determined to taunt and seduce her at the same time. His manner to her was like unto that of a man visiting a bawd—amusement covering a deep and unchangeable contempt. But she wouldn’t let his opinions hurt her. She would soon show him he would get no more mewling, simpering adoration from her and no pleasure either.

She had to convince him of her desire to be rid of him, and soon, before his sensuality burned through her prudence and her hurt, leaving her once again vulnerable. In spite of his meanness to her, she had to acknowledge to herself that she wanted him. The trouble was, he knew she wanted him.

When they were together, she would have to preserve her chilly facade much better. Morgan also thought she’d plotted with Lord Montfort to get him there. And it appeared that the only inducement that would get him to leave her alone was his quest for the priest.

Mayhap—yes—that was a way to show him that she didn’t want him there. If she were to help him on his way and on his mission to catch the French priest, that would prove to him that she wanted him gone. She had to do both—convince him that she didn’t want him and convince him to leave. How to convince him, how…

Pen’s breathing stopped, then resumed, shallow and rapid. Did she have the courage to do it? The course was a perilous one, but she was desperate to be rid of him before she grew so distraught that she abandoned her defenses against him.

Someone banged at her door. Twistle burst into the room, interrupting Pen’s frightened thoughts.

Folding her arms, Twistle rocked back and forth on her heels. “That man is making me cook supper.”

“You always cook supper, Twistle.”

“Not at his bidding, I don’t.” Twistle reddened. “He said I was to cook or he’d roast me over my own fire.”

“Oh, Twistle,” Pen groaned.

“And he said you were to come down to the hall and eat in two hours’ time.”

“What!”

“There’s to be a meal in the hall for everyone. He’s ordered it.”

“Ordered? In my keep?” Lips pursed, Pen felt her temper crackle like the fire. “Go you back to the kitchens, Twistle. Say you to my lord St. John that I’ll not be ordered about in my own castle. I’ll sup in my chamber this night, and that is
my
order.”

When the appointed time arrived, Pen was still in her room, tapping her fingers on a sideboard as she tried to read a book of hours. She had ventured halfway down the stair and listened to the preparations in the hall a few moments earlier. Nany should have brought her a tray by then. The emptiness in her stomach was growing painful. She heard the clearing of a throat and glanced up to find Erbut gawking at her, lower jaw adrift.

“I knocked, mistress.”

“Where is my tray?”

Erbut stuck his thumbs in his belt and fixed his gaze on the floor. “Lord Morgan says if you don’t join us, we don’t eat. We been sitting at table forever, mistress.”

She felt a pang of sympathy. Poor Erbut hadn’t finished growing and needed gallons of food while he was shooting up like a new onion. A flush stole into her cheeks when the boy raised a pleading glance to her.

“Very well, Erbut. I won’t make you miss your food.”

Erbut broke into a grin. “Thank you, mistress.”

Marching ahead of him, Pen searched for some speck
of indifference with which to fight the coming ordeal. By the time she walked through the archway into the hall, her head was high. She hesitated when she saw everyone gathered at their tables and Morgan seated in the largest chair on the dais, his cloak thrown over the back of it to dry. Then she summoned her most brilliant and insolent smile.

“Saints,” she said to Nany, who waited by her chair. “Why wasn’t I summoned to table? I’m so hungry, my gut is clanging against my backbone.”

She stood at her chair without looking at Morgan. “Where is our chaplain? Off doing good deeds? I shall say grace.”

“Everyone,” Morgan said in a loud voice as he rose. “Bow your heads for grace.”

Snapping her mouth closed, Pen shot a killing glance at Morgan, but he’d already bent his head and was saying the prayer. After that, the meal proceeded in silence with everyone from the pot boys to Nany eyeing the silent pair on the dais.

Pen refused to look at Morgan. She bit into her venison. Twistle had spit-roasted it and seasoned it with wine, verjuice, pepper, and ginger. Pen glanced down at her trencher. Twistle rarely had a deer killed, for the island’s supply was small.

“Twistle, how haps it that we’re dining on venison?”

The cook paused with a tray of chicken pasties in her hands and glared at Morgan. “He made me cook it.”

Morgan stuffed a hunk of venison in his mouth and grinned at them, chewing with enthusiasm. Pen managed to conceal her irritation by looking away. Through the screen she saw a boy carrying a mountain of pork tartlets. Behind him came another with poached capon. Then she swiveled her head.

She smelled buknade, a pottage made with hen and
seasoned with more of her dearly bought spices—mace, cloves, saffron, salt, and pepper. And was that ginger she smelled again? Pen took a quick gulp of ale and set her goblet down so hard, the drink sloshed onto the tablecloth. Morgan’s chuckle made her grip the edge of the table.

Turning her head away from him, her glance met that of a roasted salmon as Twistle set it down beside her. Salmon too! Twistle’s salmon required ginger and cinnamon as well as chopped onions. Pen imagined her stores of dearly bought spices vanishing in the progress of this one meal. She began to tap her foot.

She shoveled venison into her mouth, alternating it with sips of ale, and muttered imprecations against waste. Her plan to rid herself of Morgan was growing more and more palatable the longer she sat at a meal of his devising. The man had no sense of frugality. High and mighty lords didn’t have to count every grain of wheat, every leek, and each pinch of ginger. High and mighty lords needed only order dishes prepared and cast aside the honest affection of innocent maids!

Pen muttered to herself. “Loathed spendthrift, wastrel.”

“Did you say something, Mistress Fairfax?”

“Naught, my lord.”

“I could have sworn I heard you say something.”

“You mistake yourself, my—what is that?” Pen gazed at the ceremonial progress of a new dish into the hall, a tall silver flagon set on a napkin-covered tray.

“Oh, that?” Morgan said. “It’s only hypocras.”

Pen whispered in disbelief. “Hypocras?”

“Aye, hypocras. Twistle made it last night. Fortunate, think you not? Although she mentioned she couldn’t put in as much ginger as she’s wont to use.”

Twistle usually conserved hypocras and measured
it out sparingly. Pen’s foot tapped harder as she reviewed the number and type of spices that could go into hypocras. Dear God, sugar, cinnamon, ginger. Then there was nutmeg, marjoram, and cardamom along with ground pepper and grated galingale. The movement of her foot stopped as she remembered that Twistle might have used the long pepper and grains of paradise, and spikenard as well. Saints. Nearly her whole winter’s supply of herbs and spices must have vanished when Morgan invaded her kitchen.

Her hands twisted in her napkin. Her glance slid to the side, and she glared at Morgan through the slits her eyes had become. Then she saw Twistle bring in her most valuable piece of plate, a silver serving bowl, and it was filled to the brim with rose pudding.

The last vestiges of her awe at his intimidating and rich appearance and demeanor vanished. Pen thrust herself up from the table. Her chair shot backward, overturned, and clattered to the floor. The whispered conversation in the hall ceased. Pen turned to Morgan, her arms held stiffly at her sides.

“Is something wrong, mistress?” asked Morgan in the manner of a cat surfeited on butter and the fright of mice.

“I would speak with you.”

“I thought you might.”

“At once.”

Morgan grinned at her and bowed. “Thy wish is my charge, Mistress Fairfax.” He took her hand and placed it on his arm. “Shall we withdraw to your chamber?”

“The well room will do.”

“As long as you don’t try to drown me.”

Pen removed her hand from his arm and swept past him with a sniff. “After this meal, my lord, drowning is too merciful a fate for you.”

As he followed Pen into the well room, Morgan reflected on how much he liked vengeance wine. She wanted to rail at him, and soon he’d have her screeching and spitting at him. Then he’d take unholy pleasure in subduing her.

The well room contained a circular central fireplace. Pen walked to it and stood with her arms folded across her chest. Jesu, but she near glistened with bright wit, defiance, and half-concealed desire. She fumed because of the costly dishes he’d ordered. He gave her a smile often seen on the lips of grand inquisitors. His smile melted when she began to speak.

“My lord, I shall leave aside your meanness in robbing me of coin and now dearly bought stores, for I’ve no doubt you’ll recompense me. Hypocras, by my troth!”

He stared at her. “I hadn’t thought—”

“Aye, you seem to have left your reason at Beaumaris,” Pen said. “However, I’ve considered well these past hours. Someone had to. I told you to go back, but you didn’t. You no doubt think to avenge yourself upon me by—by seducing me and then casting me aside.”

“Why, Pen, how could I seduce you? Did you not assure me that you want me not?”

He chuckled when she refused to answer him.

“I want you gone,” she said, “but it seems you’ll only quit my island if I convince you of how mightily I desire your absence.”

Her voice was calm and even, her expression likewise. For the first time he considered the notion that he’d imagined her desire, that her manner was no pretense, and that no matter how much he might provoke her desire, she really wanted no more of him.

“Pen, mayhap we should both—”

“Please allow me to continue,” she said in that removed way that was enraging him. “Knowing Lord Montfort, he sent that serpent cross with you on this journey.”

Confused, Morgan felt inside his doublet and brought out the cross. Pen reached for it, and he yanked it away.

“God’s breath, Pen. You can’t touch it.”

Pen opened her mouth, but then looked over his shoulder and exclaimed, “Ponder Cutwell!”

He glanced over his shoulder, and felt the cross plucked from his grasp. “Pen, no.”

He clutched at it. He was too late. She held the cross in both hands, eyes closed, limbs rigid. Then a shiver traveled the length of her body. Pen threw her head back and screamed. The sound seared his body and caused him to leap at her and pull the cross from her hands. Flinging it aside, he grabbed Pen and wrapped his arms around her. He felt her body jerk with convulsive sobs.

Each movement made him hold her more tightly, as if his strength could banish the horror she witnessed in her mind. He would rather have faced the rack than endure seeing her in such pain. Her sobs faded slowly as she wept on his shoulder.