The Fall of Lady Westwood (3 page)

She laughed, trying to ignore the imagery that popped into her head at his use of the word ‘service’. “And what do you get if you win? I can’t very well do your chores. I can’t even
move
one of those hay bales.”

He stood with his arms crossed over a strong chest, his cheeks flushed with exertion. “A kiss.”

Her mouth dropped open. She snapped it shut, fearing she resembled a landed fish. “You — can’t be serious.”

“What’s the matter, Sophie? Afraid you won’t win — or afraid you will?”

Damn him.

His whiskey colored eyes gazed at her from under sun-bleached brows, his sandy hair mussed and sweaty. She wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through that thick hair.

“Owen —”

A clatter of hooves arose outside the barn, along with the raised voices of the other farmhands. Owen’s confident, mischievous look changed to one of puzzlement as he looked beyond Sophie into the yard outside the barn.

Sophie stood, leaning her arms on the placid cow she’d been tending. Several riders had entered the farmyard. At least four of the riders were armed and armored, sunlight glinting off burnished plate mail. One rider stood out from the rest.

It was a woman.

Dressed in a bright white blouse, with tan jodhpurs tucked into black leather boots, she appeared as someone out for an afternoon jaunt. The short sword at her hip belied that notion though. The woman dismounted without help from any of her men. Two of the soldiers joined her, the others remaining mounted.

Rory, the barrel-chested steward of the farm, walked up to greet the woman, clasping her hand and bowing deep. The steward and the woman exchanged some words, but they were too far away for Sophie to make out what was being said. The woman gestured expansively with her hand, and the steward nodded, smiling.

“What do you think it’s about?”

Sophie jumped, suppressing a cry. Owen had moved up to stand next to her, his whispered voice loud in her ear.

She smacked him on a muscular arm. “Don’t do that,” she hissed.

“Do what?”

“Sneak up on me like that, you fool!”

“Oh you old biddy!” He bumped her hip with his, and she made a face at him. The proximity of his tall, powerful body was almost as disconcerting to her as the goings on in the yard outside.

“Those banners that rider is flying look like House Westwood. Do you think that’s Lady Westwood?”

Owen shrugged. “How would I know? I’ve never set eyes on her. I only know that we pay our tithings, or we get a visit from a few of those riders out there.”

“She’s not as bad as all that, Owen. Father speaks quite highly of her actually. Says she is a fair and merciful Lady. We’re lucky to have her.”

“Aye, I suppose it could be worse. We could be under the Blackarch banner. Tommy Crowder tells me terrible things of his family’s ordeals under their rule. Nobody could be worse than that.”

“You shouldn’t listen to Tommy Crowder. He tells tall tales, you know.”

Owen grunted, an edge to his voice. “Does he? So I suppose the stripes across his back he showed me are old wive’s tales then? Vicious bastards beat him near to death.”

Sophie looked back at him, seeing his brows knit together. “I’m sorry for it, Owen. Even he doesn’t deserve such.”

Owen glanced at her, his eyes distant. “Perhaps not, Sophie, but that’s his lot all the same. Wish it weren’t so.”

She laid a hand on his arm. She knew the farmhands led hard lives, and were subject to more than she —her father being a landowning man — but even knowing that, a part of her longed for the simplicity of their lives; the easy, uncomplicated joys and lack of true responsibility. Her father made it clear to her early on that she was meant for better things than farm life, and he had made it his mission in life to find eligible suitors for her. So far, they had all been fops or dandies from such cities as Wyndhaven. Not a one of them was prepared for even a day of life on the farm.

Though her father had tried to discourage it, she had always insisted she be allowed to work the farm along with the other young hands. She loved it, enjoying contributing to something usually thought of as a peasant’s work. Her father, though he regarded it as beneath her station, allowed it because her work at least got her out of his hair. He’d had no male heirs born to him, and Sophie’s sisters had already been married off. He’d never remarried following the death of Sophie’s mother while giving birth to her youngest sister Maris. Indeed, he seemed never to have fully recovered from the loss. As a result, he was indulgent with his daughter, and she took advantage of it as much as she dared.

Rory looked over at the barn, the woman’s gaze following. Then he led the woman and two of the men into the house. Two of the farmhands assisted the rest of her retinue, helping with watering the horses.

Owen picked up his rake and began mucking out the next stall. “Well, it’s back at it for us, old girl. Rory will be generous with the strap if he has a high and mighty Lady to impress.”

Sophie watched the strange riders a moment longer, then knelt once more to finish Mathilda’s rubdown. The heifer’s poor nipples were inflamed again, and she hoped the cream would keep them from cracking.

They both worked in silence for several minutes, Sophie lost in thought about what the visit might mean. It wasn’t every day that a commoner farm was visited by nobility! Perhaps the Lady had a suitor in mind for Sophie? She shuddered at the thought, at the obligation she’d be under to see the man if such was the case. She guessed it was probably a discussion of tithes or perhaps crop rotation, but she had no idea why the Lady would attend such a meeting herself. She had a dozen captains and hundreds of men-at-arms for such tasks, after all.

“Is this the one? Your man told me she was in the barn.”

“Aye, that’s my Sophie, your Grace.”

Sophie, startled at the unfamiliar sound of the smooth female voice, stood up, brushing the dirt and straw from the front of her shift. Standing in the barn doorway were her father and the mysterious Lady. The sun-drenched yard behind them rendered their figures but dark silhouettes against the glare.

Owen moved to Sophie’s side, the handle of his rake clasped low across his hips. She was surprised at the comfort she felt with him near, for this visit was unexpected. In her experience, surprises were all too often unpleasant ones.

“Milady,” Sophie said, sketching a curtsy. Owen did not follow; a quick incline of his head was all that he granted the Lady.

“And who might this impertinent young man be?”

“Owen Galt, your Grace,” her father said. “One of my hands.”

Her father and the Lady stepped closer, out of the glare of the afternoon sun, and Sophie was able to get a better look at her. The Lady was blessed with a cold beauty. The snug riding attire set off her willowy figure pleasingly, her sable hair up in a tight bun. Her dark eyes regarded Sophie with assessing frankness. She didn’t like the woman’s regard one bit.

“He needs a lesson in manners, Clayton.” Her gaze flitted to Owen then back to Sophie as if to confirm what she was really after. Sophie swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Yes, your Grace,” her father said, grimacing. “My steward will have a word with him very shortly.”

Sophie didn’t miss the glint in her father’s sad eyes, nor the clench of his jaw. Owen’s lack of deference to his superiors was probably going to cost him a thrashing with Rory’s strap after all. The young man betrayed not a hint of fright at the prospect though, and her esteem for him grew more at his courage. She had the sudden urge to grasp his arm, but she suppressed it, not wanting to anger her father further.

The Lady turned to Sophie’s father. “Might we have a look at her now?

Sophie wondered if the Lady was perhaps after one of the horses that were stalled deeper within the barn; it was well known that House Westwood was always on the lookout for fast horses. There were nothing but mares and a single foal in the barn however. Perhaps the Lady was seeking a brood mare instead?

The look of helplessness Sophie saw flash across the angular features of her father’s face unsettled her. He turned to face the Lady.

“Your Grace — perhaps I —”

The Lady’s smile beamed, dazzling in its beauty, but her eyes were cold as the winter morning. “Clayton, forgive me. We haven’t spoken of compensation yet have we? I was so intent on finding my prize, it simply slipped my mind.”

The Lady laid a hand on his shoulder. The sparkling jeweled rings on her fingers looked to be worth more than the entire farm, and then some. “How much would assuage your misplaced guilt, ameliorate your loss? My men carry gold enough, surely. Name your price.”

She turned her smiling face to Sophie, and it was at that moment that she realized something was dreadfully wrong.

“Father, what’s going on here? What does she mean?”

“Why do you speak to him and not to me, girl? He has no more dominion over you. That has now become my privilege to enjoy.” The glint of the Lady’s eyes left no doubt in Sophie’s mind that she was in serious peril. Those eyes bespoke nothing but cruelty.

“Sophie,” her father said, stepping toward her. “Address your Lady properly, you know better than this.” He lowered his head slightly, staring at her, the forlorn expression on his face rapidly eroding any confidence she’d had that this encounter would turn out well for her.

“I am sorry, milady. It’s just that I don’t understand. What are you here to procure?”

The Lady tilted her head to one side, her pink lips curved in a half smile. “Why I’m here to procure
you
, my dear.”

Sophie’s heart sank through the floor. This couldn’t be happening.

Owen stepped in front of Sophie, his arm reaching around her protectively. “She’s not going anywhere, my Lady.”

Sophie clutched his arm, wanting to melt into him, to seek shelter in his strength. She knew the feeling was absurd, but she was truly frightened, and holding onto Owen gave her real, if fleeting, comfort.

Sophie’s father growled, ready to explode, but the Lady beat him to it. Her sword was out so fast, Sophie had no perception of its movement. Rather, it seemed to instantly materialize, the lethal point a mere breath from the pulsing carotid of Owen’s throat.

“Oh, I think she is, boy.” The Lady’s mouth was a thin line, her jaw clenched. “Stand down. Now.”

Owen stepped back a pace, pushing Sophie behind him. The Lady betrayed her first bit of pique, her cool confidence faltering for the briefest of moments, revealing an icy anger. She gritted her teeth, nodding her head. Two of her men appeared instantly in the doorway, rushing to Owen and grasping him by the arms.

“Bastards!” Owen broke the grip of one of the men, crashing his forearm up under the soldier’s chin, sending him reeling. It was a short fight though, the pommel of the other soldier’s sword striking the boy a neat blow to the temple, staggering him. The other soldier quickly recovered, landing a gauntlet-clad fist in the tall boy’s midsection, doubling him over with a pained gasp of breath.

“Leave him alone!” Sophie attacked the nearest man, beating on his mailed back with her fists.

“Sophie!” Her father’s roar was enough to cause even the soldiers to pause a moment in their manhandling of Owen.

The Lady grabbed Sophie by the arm, spinning her around to face her. Sophie froze, the point of the Lady’s sword now resting its deadly coldness in the hollow at the base of her throat. “You stay there. You’re in enough trouble as it is. Don’t make it worse for yourself, girl.” The Lady’s eyes flashed as she spoke, points of color in her golden cheeks.

The Lady turned to the soldiers holding Owen, dipping her sword toward the ground. The men kicked the legs out from under him, dropping him to his knees, their hold on his shoulders preventing the struggling boy from rising. As placid as a still lake, the Lady stepped toward him. She pulled her leather riding gloves from her pocket. Then there were two whirs of brown color as the Lady slapped Owen across the cheeks with the gloves, one side, then the other.

He stared up at her, naked rage in his eyes. Sophie had no doubt that had Owen been given the chance, he would have attacked the Lady, even though such an act would have meant the forfeiture of his life.

“Now then,
boy
,” the Lady said. “You’ll know not to question your betters next time, yes?”

With a defiant thrust of his chin, Owen turned his face away.

“Your Grace,” Sophie’s father said, stepping to the Lady’s side. “He’s a daft lad. Let him be, I beg you.”

“As I said, Clayton,” the Lady replied, returning her gloves to her pocket. “Charming though his chivalry toward your daughter may be, he needs a lesson in better manners. Perhaps my men might show him the error of his ways?”

One of the men holding Owen chuckled, ruffling his unruly hair.

“
No
, please your Grace. Not that,” Sophie’s father said, shaking his head. “I will have Rory see to him. He won’t sit comfortably for a week, I assure you. Let us leave it at that.”

Sophie wasn’t sure what was worse: the thought of Owen being lashed for protecting her, or the sick feeling in her stomach at the defeated tone of her father’s voice. She’d never in her life heard him like that, the fear just under the surface.