Wildewood Revenge (11 page)

He turned to assess her slowly, seemed about to begin a conversation before giving a slight dismissive shrug. “Stay here until I’ve inspected the remainder of the property.”

Unable to descend the stairs without help, Grace had no alternative other than to stay put. She did just that; not because he’d told her to, but simply because she had seen enough.

It was time to work out what had happened.

The room contained a large wooden bed with dusty drapes and a carved wooden chest under a window set so high in the wall that Grace would have had to climb on the chest to look out. She stripped the grubby linen off the bed and laid the cloak which Miles had wrapped around her on their journey, over the lumpy mattress. She needed to heat some water, and she needed a bath. She needed many things but top of the list was the need to get home. She lay down on the bed, worn out with the journey and the never ending confusion. Perhaps she would close her eyes just for a short while. Once refreshed everything might become clear.

She dreamt of the exhibition, her first, and of Will who helped organise it. Wonderful Will who had been so helpful, so encouraging, filled with belief in her talent. A rare find, he’d called her, a natural artis
t on a par with the early ecclesia
stical painters. He’d made her feel
like a star and she’d revelled in it.
How easily she’d been seduced by this talk of greatness, of being special, unique and how easily he persuaded her to show how her talent compared against those great works.
How easily that work would sell, he convinced her. It was her duty reall
y, not everyone could afford
something as rare as a medieval image, but hers were so convincing they would be a welcome substitute.

Not a forgery, never a forgery, she would never have agreed to that. Her work was her own. But the authorities were not quite so understanding and with her unique portrait of Edward Longshanks, identical in every brush stroke to the original, she was left with no defence. She’d chosen the one painting that stood alone from the usual flat two dimensional works of the period. She’d chosen a painting that at the time of its creation would have appeared scandalous, heretic even. It had called to her in the strangest of ways and the image of the man beneath the crown, t
he father
and husband
,
had empowered her to produce her greatest work with uncanny ease. Her career in the art world was shattered along with her trust in mankind. She had seen the smug look on Will’s face when he’d left her to face the music. She’d crawled back to the home that had been hers since the death of
her parents and grandparents.
And she’d lived in that empty house, just her, the dog and a handful of chickens
,
until Fly had brought her here.

Chapter Twelve

She woke with a start, her cheeks wet with tears. The room was in near darkness with only the meagre firelight and one small candle struggling to illuminate the shadows. She watched the flickering light dance on the stone walls and took a moment to work out where she was. How strange this was, when she slept she dreamt of the real world and when she woke she was living a dream. Perhaps this was the real world after all? Maybe everything that had happened to ruin her life was merely a nightmare and she had finally woken from it.

She became aware of Edmund hovering at the open door and realised she’d been woken by knocking.

“My lady, we have food ready for
yer
to eat in the hall. May I escort
yer
?”

Grace swung her feet carefully off the bed and tested her leg gingerly. She was cold and starving and would have hopped down the s
tairs on one leg if necessary.
“Thank you, Edmund, I could eat a horse!”

Someone had been busy in the hall Grace noted as she carefully descended the stairs, one hand securely gripping Edmund’s surprisingly strong arm. It had been swept of the foul smelling straw and the table was lit with candles and set with bowls and a large dish of roasted meat. The fire was well alight and stacked with logs which burned far better and gave out more heat than the broken furniture of her earlier effort. The hall looked more welcoming than when she’d first seen it. A scent of pine logs and wood smoke filled the air, it reminded her of village winters when the fires were lit as soon as the sun’s meagre warmth began to
wain
. She immediately felt homesick.

Miles rose from his seat at the table as she approached, pulling out a
chair for her to sit. She avoided eye contact with him. His attempt at civility left her feeling awkward, as if they hadn’t just spent the last two days in varying degrees of hostility. She took her seat hesitantly. She felt grubby, her hair hung in greasy strands and she was aware of an unpleasant pungency. She would never have sat down to eat in such a state if she were at home. She would have bathed in a bubble bath up to her chin, then dressed in pyjamas and snuggled up with Fly on the sofa in front of the fire.

She cleared her throat. “I need to bathe, is that possible?”

Miles indicated with a slight nod of his head, a bowl of clean water and a cloth next to her on the table and Grace raised one brow questioningly.

“I was hoping for something a little larger?”

“For your hands, Mademoiselle,” replied Miles as he appraised her lazily. She wished he would stop. She wasn’t vain by any stretch of the imagination, but she was a woman and bedraggled to say the least. “I’ll bring something more adequate to your chamber later,” he added slyly.

She shot him an appraising look of her own. Two could play at that game, and quite frankly both he and the boy fairly reeked.

“Thank you. Don’t forget to keep some hot water for yourself. You know what th
ey say: cleanliness is next to G
odliness.” He narrowed his eyes and she realised with a sickening jolt that maybe it wasn’t wise to poke a stick at the tiger. “You don’t need to carry water upstairs, down here will do,” offered Grace in an attempt to recover some ground. “Just find me a tub and I’ll happily splash in it.” His grin widened and she marvelled at her own capacity for digging a hole and jumping in headfirst.

Miles glanced at Edmund who was paying far too much attention,
his eyes flicking from one to the other as he followed the conversation.

“An in
teresting thought, Mademoiselle,
however I would venture your chamber to be a more appropriate venue.
He turned back to the boy. “Did you hear that, Edmund? We offend this fine lady with our stink.” His smirk widened as Grace reddened awkwardly. That hole was getting deeper.

“That isn’t what I said. I simply meant we’d all feel refreshed and fragrant after our long journey.”

“And fragrant skin is naturally more appealing?” The amusement was clear now as he cocked his head and led her on, a lamb to the slaughter.

“Well, yes
,
of course.”

“Yes, I would agree, Mademoiselle. When I lower my head, skim my lips across a woman’s flesh and breathe the scent of freshly washed, pink and glowing skin, fragrance definitely encourages a...positive response.”

She gaped at him, prepared to fling herself headlong into the bottomless pit she’d created. The arrogant twitch of his scarred brow saved her just in time and pulled her back from the abyss.

“So, as I was saying, yes, you stink and you’ve as much cha
nce of a positive response as
you have of securing a ransom.”

Miles sat back with a snort of laughter, and Grace rinsed her grubby hands in the warm water and tried to ignore him.

“You think I won’t secure a ransom?” he asked.

“I know you won’t.”

“And why are you so certain?”

“Because, I’m not who you think I am.”

“Indeed.” He sobered and studied her across the table. “Perhaps we
should have a wager.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t.”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

Grace looked up at him then, and fixed him with narrowed eyes. “No, afraid you’ll cheat.”

He spread his arms wide, gave a self-depreciating shrug “I’m a knight of the realm, you can trust me.”

“If you’re so chivalrous, why didn’t you take me straight home when I asked?”

“I didn’t say I was chivalrous. I said I was trustworthy. If I say that I’ll do something, then you can wager your life I will.”

“And what are you going to do with me?”

He smiled and she caught the hint of something as it flashed in his eyes.

“Sell you to the highest bidder of course. I reckon you’ll be worth a purse or two, fragrant or not. But in the meantime” he raised a cup in her direction, “I forget my manners, would you care for a little mead?” he asked. “It’s been maturing during my absence. It may be a little strong for your tender palate.”

Grace took the proffered wooden cup and against her better judgement, took a sip. It was strong and she was not much of a drinker but there was challenge in Miles’ eye so she took another larger swallow and passed the mug back.

“Did you rest well?” he asked, as if he knew she had not. Grace wondered if he’d come to her room while she’d relived her nightmare.

“Not really,” Grace replied truthfully, “I was dreaming of another place.” She dried her hands on the square of cloth and helped herself to the food on the table filling her plate with as much as she could take
without appearing greedy. The meat was identifiable only as a fowl of some sort, possibly pigeon by its size and there were a number on the platter. She glanced at Edmund who had taken a whole bird and followed suit. The nausea which had plagued her had finally lifted and it left her with a painful, empty stomach which she needed to fill. In the absence of cutlery she was unwilling to produce Edmund’s knife from her pocket, so she picked at the meat and vegetables daintily with her fingers and licked the thin gravy from her fingers. Miles settled back in his seat and watched her.

“Another place, Kirk
Knowe
?” he asked as he passed the mug back and Grace wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and took another sip between bites.

“No. Just somewhere with bad memories,” She wondered what Miles would make of the truth, if she ever got around to telling it. She chewed slowly and gazed into the fire. She was warm for the first time in days and there was something about an open fire that was comforting. Despite having just woken she was still weary and stifled a yawn.

“Was your father the gardener at Kirk
Knowe
?” asked Miles, taking the mug back from Grace and filling it from a pewter jug before taking his fill.

She reluctantly drew her gaze from the flames. Of course he had assumed her father’s trade, because her name was Gardner.

“No my father was a teacher. H
e taught music at an academy in London. He was a talented violinist, you know, fiddler?” She mimed the action of fiddle and bow and ignored his blank look
.“
He played in concerts. My mother was an artist a free spirit, rather like me really.” She thought of them wistfully, hadn’t really thought of them for some time. They had been gone so long and her memories were those of a
child. She pulled at her fringe and twisted the ends between her fingers. It had been one of her childhood habits. Her mother had scolded her, warned her she would wake up one morning with no hair if she continued.

Miles studied her
and poured another drink. “Why did they give you to the church? Surely you would have made a good marriage match, or did they have one too many daughters?” The mead was loosening her tongue, and he pressed another into her hand.

Grace smiled. S
he w
ould have to put him straight. T
he whole situation was getting far too bizarre and the mead didn’t help. She enjoyed it a little too much. Perhaps if she just came out and told him the truth they could sort out the mess she’d found herself in. Of course tel
ling the truth wasn’t the issue -
having him believe it would be the problem...a time portal, a doorway, a passage to the past? She didn’t quite believe it herself.

“No, they had only one child, although I always wanted a little brother.” She glanced wistfully at Edmund. “They were killed in a fire at a concert hall when I was ten and I was brought up by my grandparents at Kirk
Knowe
.” She paused to look at him. “I don’t know who or what you think I am, but I’m certainly not a nun. No one is going to pay ransom for me. In fact there is no one here who would even care whether I exist or not. You may as well take me back to where you found me and let me go. I’m not worth anything to you.” Or anyone else she added silently, and wasn’t that the truth.

If she was expecting some blinding flash or whirlwind which would miraculously catapult her back to where she’d come from, she was disappointed. Neither did she find herself back in the forest with a bump on the head, or waking up in her own bed in her cottage. She was
still in the great hall sat at the wooden table in front of the fire with Miles at one end and a slumbering Edmund at the other.