The Bride Of Windermere. Margo Maguire
been inside all night. Not that her stepfather would care where she was all night; the only thing that mattered to him was that she keep his household running smoothly, and that she be there to take the blame when it did not. However, it would give him the excuse he needed to bring her to her knees, which seemed to be one of Lord Thomas’ favorite pastimes. Anyway, Bridget would have torn the whole house apart looking for her, and Kit experienced a pang of guilt for causing her cousin trouble and concern. Bridget hadn’t been in the best of health lately, though Kit was hard-pressed to put her finger on what was wrong.
She ran through the yard and into the stable. There were plenty of likely spots for a youth to sleep, and it wasn’t the first time Kit had spent the night there with the horses.
The sun was high when the ruckus in the yard woke her. It would be the man from King Henry, no doubt, and here she was with nary a plan. Her heart jumped to her throat when she recognized the angrily booming voice. It was the voice of Wolf, the man at the lake. “Explain yourself, Somers!” he demanded. “Where is she?” There was no gentleness to his voice now, she thought, though he had used it like a caress last night.
Her stepfather staggered into the yard. Kit looked up toward the sun to gauge the time. It was not yet noon, but Lord Thomas had already imbibed too much. His clothes were rumpled and soiled, and he wore the stubble of the night’s growth of beard. His face had taken on that look of meanness so familiar to Kit, and he could barely stand. No wonder the knight was impatient. He probably hadn’t received an intelligible response from the baron since he’d arrived.
“She was here, I tell you, and I will get the twit back.” Somers’ eyes narrowed, and Kit recognized the signs of drunken vengeance. She didn’t want to be caught by him while he was in this state.
“I will return in one hour,” the knight said, his annoyance matching the baron’s anger. “At that time, I will collect young Kathryn and depart immediately. Have her here and ready or suffer the consequences of Henry’s wrath.”
Wolf turned and moved away with a grace that belied his massive frame. He was every inch a soldier, and Kit had a quick opportunity to study his face and body before making her move. His features were sharply defined and altogether too pleasing. Even a ghastly scar which ran from the right upper corner of his forehead, slashing over his left eye and into his left cheek did nothing to diminish his powerful magnetism. His cool gray eyes were hooded by thick black brows, the thickness and darkness matching that of his unruly mane.
Kit watched the man rake his hand through the dark hair in frustration and knew she had to move quickly. She was not about to be caught by any of her stepfather’s men, nor was she going to allow herself to be vulnerable to this Wolf and his soldiers. She would hide and wait for Rupert, and after he’d claimed her, only then would she deign to travel to London to please the king. After all, if she left Baron Somers’ holding now, how would Rupert ever find her? For he must certainly be on his way north to claim her.
Kit slipped out the back of the stable leading Old Myra, a horse her stepfather had recently acquired from a neighboring estate. Kit hoped that with the proper encouragement, Old Myra would head for home, some seventeen miles east of Somerton, and Baron Somers’ men would follow the horse’s trail. In the meantime, Kit had no intention of accompanying the mare to her former home.
Undetected, she led the horse down the hillside to the cover of trees, pointed her eastwardly and gave her a good crack on the rump. Old Myra took off as though she had a bee under her bridle. And Kit ran as if she had one in her britches as well, but in the opposite direction.
When she got closer to the village, she stopped to scoop up a handful of dirt to smear on her arms and face. If any of the baron’s men happened by, she was certain she could pass for one of the villagers. If not, the baron’s retribution would affect not only her, but the people of Somerton as well. With a sigh and a prayer, Kit moved swiftly through the woods, hoping that her ruse with old Myra would keep the baron’s men off her track.
Unfortunately, Old Myra had plans of her own. After tearing away in the direction of her former home, she ran into an obstacle, a small creek which had swelled with the spring rains, and it caused her to turn back much sooner than Kit had hoped.
Without the diversion of Old Myra’s trail, the baron’s men found Kit easily. She thought she’d been so clever heading for Somerton village, never considering that the baron’s retainers would go there first. Why couldn’t Old Myra’s trail have fooled them? Why hadn’t she thought to climb into one of the trees and wait them out? They never would have looked for her in the high boughs that were so familiar to her.
Kit was outdone, but only for the moment. It was a long way to London, she thought as they dragged her roughly back to the house. Plenty could happen before she reached the city, and Kit vowed to work out some plan that would enable her to rendezvous with Rupert.
“Oh, my child, my wee girl,” Bridget wailed as Kit was dragged into the courtyard. The baron’s men were unduly rough with her, especially in view of the fact that she had acceded to them. “I’ve been so worried, not knowing—”
“Hush, woman!” Lady Edith admonished angrily. This business with her stepdaughter had disrupted her life enough without having to listen to the rantings of Kathryn’s deranged cousin. She turned to Kit. “I see you’ve outfitted yourself as becomes your station, Kathryn.”
Margery and Eleanor snickered behind their hands.
Kit gulped. She knew she was a mess, but she refused to improve upon her present appearance for the benefit of Lady Edith or anyone else, for that matter. She straightened her back and drew herself up proudly. Her pride and her sense of humor were about the only two things they hadn’t taken from her. She bolstered her courage by thinking of Rupert and how he would come to take her away. If only her true father had lived, he would have protected her, cherished—
“Where is the little wretch?” Lord Thomas drawled, coming into the yard. As he came around the corner and saw Kit, a cruel gleam entered his eye. The baron’s men recognized Lord Thomas’ mood at once and made no move to help or protect Kit. She had refused each of their attentions too many times to expect help from any of them.
Kit refused to cower, even when Baron Somers lashed out and backhanded her across the face. The blow split her lower lip and sent her to the ground, but she got to her feet immediately and began to run. It was disheartening to hear the cruel laughter behind her, then the footsteps following, gaining on her. They were going to play with her the way a cat teased its prey. It was not a new game, chasing her about the yard, letting her wear herself out, then dragging her back to the baron for whatever brutality he had in mind. Kit wouldn’t have played along willingly, but the instincts to escape, to protect herself were too strong.
This time, the baron only blackened her eye, though the blow knocked her senseless. Someone dragged her to her room and locked her in. It was several minutes before Kit regained her senses.
“Oh, darlin’ girl,” Bridget cooed, tears streaming down her face. “What has he done to ye this time? If my Meghan were livin’ none o’ this would be happenin’.”
Kit opened her right eye, the unswollen one, to see Bridget’s little face looming over her. “What happened?” she whispered. It hurt to move her lips and when she pressed her fingers to them, she knew why. Dark blood still oozed from the gash Thomas inflicted.
“Ye must go with the king’s men,” the old nurse said. “At least ye’ll be away from the devil baron. Ye’ll be safe from his infernal temper for once.”
“But Rupert—”
“Rupert won’t be comin’ back, don’t ye know? Can’t ye understand?” Bridget argued, exasperated. Frustrated. She’d tried to convince her young charge of this over and over again. “Sure and I love the lad, but he’s been gone too long. He can’t expect ye to be waitin’ for him still, with nary a word in three years. The only way we’ve heard about him has been from the few travelers who’ve—”
“Oh, Bridget, my head hurts.” She didn’t want to think about Rupert