The Lady of Secrets (10 page)

Rubbing bleary eyes, she struggled to her feet and winced at the stiffness in her back. She stretched and yawned, gazing down at Seraphine, curled up on her mound of straw as though she were nestled in the downiest of feather beds.

Meg was in no hurry to rouse her. As swiftly as she was able to fall asleep, Seraphine had a tendency to bolt awake. Not for her the languor with which most noblewomen faced their mornings. Seraphine would leap out of bed like a knight in full charge, ready to tilt with the new day.

Meg needed a slower, gentler beginning. She liked the quiet of those first moments of morning, to reflect, to gather her strength to face whatever the day might hold. She tiptoed past her sleeping friend and stepped outside.

The sky was overcast, heavy with the threat of more rain. The breeze that stirred Meg’s hair carried with it the smell of wet grass and an earth washed and renewed. Meg breathed deeply, savoring the rich aroma, willing it to clear her mind of bad dreams, disturbing strangers, and all the distressing events of yesternight.

No one else was stirring except for an ostler heading toward the stables, perhaps to ready the mounts for the Englishmen. It behooved travelers to get an early start and she hoped Sir Patrick Graham would be eager to do so. She would be glad when the two men resumed their journey. But she doubted Sir Patrick would have much success rousing Blackwood before noon. The last Meg had seen of the doctor, he had been slumped over a table in the taproom, in a fair way to being dead drunk.

But that was the unfortunate Sir Patrick’s problem. Meg had one of her own. The sight of a scraggly rooster, strutting through the stable yard, reminded her of her resolve to find la
Mère Poulet and coax her to the safety of Faire Isle. Even though Bridget’s accusations had been proved false, there would be those who would regard the old woman with increased hostility.

Meg knew little of her other than those few times she had seen la Mère Poulet begging outside the inn or one of the cottages. Whenever Meg had tried to approach her, the old woman had shied away, disappearing into the field beyond the village. La Mère Poulet was wary of strangers, a caution that Meg understood and respected.

Meg always had left her offering of food upon a tree stump and retreated. After the events of yesterday, winning the woman’s trust had become a matter of greater urgency.

But first Meg had to find her. Surely in a village the size of Pernod, that should not prove too difficult. Meg fortified herself with another lungful of bracing morning air and returned to the shed to wake the sleeping countess.

THE MORNING WANED SWIFTLY ALONG WITH MEG’S OPTIMISM
. By the time she made her third circuit of the village without encountering la Mère Poulet, Meg seethed with a mingling of frustration and anxiety.

Over Seraphine’s protests, she and Meg had parted company to search in opposite directions. Meg only hoped that Seraphine was having better luck than she was. La Mère Poulet lived as a vagrant, but the poor old soul must have sought refuge from the storm somewhere last night.

Surely someone in Pernod might have been compassionate enough to give the old woman shelter. But Meg had seen
little of kindness in any of the faces she had encountered this morning. No one was inclined to offer her so much as a good morrow, let alone answer her inquiries after la Mère Poulet.

Meg overheard enough mutterings to guess at the rumors being spread, that Meg had employed some dark magic to induce Bridget Tillet to confess. If she had possessed such power, Meg thought she would have used it to melt some of these stony hearts and to grow herself a new pair of feet, ones less sore and aching.

She trudged back down the lane, feeling the full effects of her restless night. She had not taken the time to breakfast or even wash her face this morning. Tired, bedraggled, and hungry, she recollected a barrel left to gather rainwater near the inn. At least, she might take a brief pause to refresh herself.

Meg headed in that direction, shoving up her sleeves in anticipation of a reviving splash of water. Unfortunately someone else had the same idea. Meg drew up in dismay to discover Blackwood there before her.

The doctor bent and thrust his entire head inside the barrel. He came up dripping, water streaming from his hair and beard. Meg would not have been surprised to see him shake it off like a mongrel dog. But considering the amount of wine he had imbibed last night, it would have been an action most ill-advised.

Blackwood had enough wit to realize that. Using both hands, he slicked his hair back from his eyes. He straightened as his bloodshot gaze came to rest upon her. Every instinct she possessed urged Meg to beat a swift retreat, but something inside her revolted at allowing herself to be intimidated by this man.

She didn’t understand what imp took possession of her,
perhaps one born of her own frustration and exhaustion or her intense dislike and contempt for Blackwood. In an action far more worthy of Seraphine, Meg stepped closer and announced in a loud bright voice, “Good morrow!”

She was gratified to see Blackwood wince.

“There is nothing good about it, so kindly refrain from shouting at me.”

“Did you have a difficult night, Doctor? You look most unwell. I daresay you are suffering from a surfeit of black humors coursing through your veins. Perhaps it would help if you were bled.”

He regarded her dourly. “I don’t think anything would help my head except for decapitation. What the devil do these Bretons put in that vile brew you call wine? Even the chunk of amethyst I keep in my purse was of no avail.”

“Amethyst? Of what use would that be?”

“You have never heard that an amethyst has the power to ward off the effects of too much drink? What manner of cunning woman are you?”

“You seriously believe in such nonsense? What manner of doctor are you? Instead of putting the rock in your purse, shove it in your mouth next time.”

“My mouth?”

“Yes, then it would serve a twofold purpose. Keep you from drinking and exposing your ignorance. Good day to you, monsieur.”

Meg turned to make a haughty exit, but Blackwood caught hold of her wrist. His grip was not as painful as the last time, but firm enough to prevent her twisting free.

“Unhand me at once!”

Blackwood ignored her, inspecting the bruises on her forearm. “Did … did I do that?”

“Since I cannot recall wrestling with anyone else last night, you must be to blame. Now let me go before you snap my wrist as well.”

He frowned, releasing her. Meg rolled down her sleeves, covering the bruises.

Blackwood had a naturally ruddy complexion but a deeper stain of red washed his cheeks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—I was just—”

“Drunk? Men frequently use that to explain away loutish behavior. A poor excuse in my opinion.”

“Mine too. That is why I never use it.”

“Then what excuse do you offer?”

“That I am an ass.”

“I entirely agree with you, but I am astonished you so freely admit it.”

“Why not? It is not as though it is a condition I can easily conceal. I would like to blame it on the wine or assure you it doesn’t happen that often. But drunk or sober I must warn you I am an ass most of the time.”

Meg studied him, trying to decide if he was in jest or earnest. His expression was solemn, but a hint of wry humor touched his lips. She had to bite back an unexpected urge to smile.

“Thank you for the warning, monsieur. I shall do my best to avoid you.”

“You should,” he agreed affably. “But not just yet, because I happen to be the ass who has found what you are looking for.”

“How do you know I have been searching for anything?”

“My dear woman, you have been rushing up and down the lanes all morning. The entire village knows you have been
hunting for that old woman they call la Mère Poulet and are unable to find her.”

“And you claim that
you
have been able to do so?”

“Oh, yes.” Blackwood grimaced, displaying the angry red scratches on the back of his hands. “And I have the battle scars to prove it.”

MEG FOLLOWED BLACKWOOD DOWN THE BEACH, HER HEART
full of misgivings. She had little reason to trust the man. His claim of where he had found la Mère Poulet made little sense.

This stretch of shore was far too open and exposed, the rocks offering little by way of concealment or shelter. A rough wind blew off the channel and Meg was obliged to constantly brush tangles of hair from her eyes.

She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, aware of how far they had strayed from the confines of the village. If Blackwood had lured her down here for some sinister purpose of his own, there would be no one to see, no one to hear Meg’s cries but the gulls that wheeled overhead.

But Blackwood did not appear to care whether she accompanied him or not. When she lagged behind, he did not even look back to make sure she was still there.

Meg quickened her steps to draw apace with him. If nothing else, his large frame provided a break from the wind. Blackwood had lapsed into silence since leaving the village, which suited Meg.

It made it easier to study him. She hardly knew what to think of the man. She would have expected him to be still
abed at this hour, nursing a throbbing head, or if he was able to rise, then eager to saddle his mount and be off. Blackwood didn’t strike her as the sort of man to bestir himself for his closest friends, let alone take the trouble to search for a half-mad old woman he had never even met. She could only question what the doctor’s motives might be.

The doctor
 … that was another thing that unsettled her. Blackwood was unlike any other physician she had ever met, most of them pompous graybeards in their long black robes, more eager to show off their Latin and Greek than display any useful healing skills. Blackwood appeared as arrogant and ignorant as any of the breed, but he lacked the pedantic manner. With his broad shoulders, strapping height, sunburned complexion, and rough beard, he more resembled a mariner or a soldier, the kind of rogue who would loll about in alehouses between battles, drinking away his coin or losing it at dice.

It was difficult to guess his age. Lines creased his eyes, but those were likely the wages of hard living and dissipated habits. His upright bearing and the vitality of his movements suggested a man in his prime, perhaps not much more than thirty.

Blackwood angled a sidewise glance at her and scowled. “Don’t stare. It’s rude.”

“I am sorry,” Meg said, although she thought that Blackwood was hardly the one to lecture her on good manners. “But you puzzle me exceedingly. Why did you bother seeking out la Mère Poulet?”

“I imagine for the same reason that you are. To keep an innocent old crone from ending up with her neck stretched. That is the only reason I staggered upstairs last night to try to deal with that lying little strumpet.”

“Then you realized that Bridget was faking her illness?”

“Any fool could tell … well, except the ones that live in this village. I scarcely had to examine the chit before I wanted to wring her skinny neck.”

“Because you despise liars?”

Blackwood laughed. “Lord no, I am an accomplished liar myself. I rather admire the art except when it is fueled by malice or intended to cause pain and ruin.”

His expression darkened. “No, it is injustice that I hate and I have seen too damn much of that. I’d do battle with the devil himself before I’d ever see another innocent harmed.”

“Bridget behaved very badly, but she is hardly the devil.” Meg cast him a troubled look. “You knew she was faking and yet you were going to take your knife to her.”

“I only brandished my lancet to alarm her, to get her to admit the truth.”

“I doubt your crude method would have worked. You came closer to frightening her into hysterics.”

“So what brilliant means did you employ? The entire village suspects you of mesmerizing or enchanting the girl. I confess that I, too, am curious to know your secret.”

Meg hesitated, but decided there could be no harm in telling him. As she explained her ruse with the burned lock of hair, Blackwood looked grudgingly impressed.