My Lady De Burgh. Deborah Simmons
wits. In all probability, if he were to touch her, the One would scream her head off, and then she wouldn’t be the only one suspecting him of murder! Deliberately, he backed away, though his whole body seemed to rebel against such a course. Robin tried to reason with it.
Just because he felt this odd sense of recognition in connection with Sybil did not mean that she was his responsibility. Why should it matter to him what happened to her, if she got herself in some kind of trouble or even was involved somehow in the death of the nun? She was not his concern, Robin told himself. Still, he felt atypically disoriented as she led him through the guest house to a private chamber, as if his mind was at war with the rest of him. And losing.
Robin took a deep breath and looked around. It was a well-appointed room, better than the average wayfarer could expect, and he nodded in approval as he dropped his pack upon a low stool. The bed was larger than he had anticipated, and he stared at it long and hard before his gaze swung back toward Sybil. Although the door remained open, the knowledge that they were alone together sent his blood rushing to nether regions.
Along with the surge of lust, Robin felt that curious sense of familiarity, as if he had known this woman forever, that despite her black looks and tart tongue, they were made for one another. For a long moment, he even had the notion that should he hold out his hand, she would take it, joining him eagerly. But instead of extending his fingers toward her, Robin lifted them to the neck of his tunic, where he tugged hard. Tempted as he was by the sight of that bed, he knew that such urges led to madness, or at least to marriage. And with a groan of panic, he hurried from the premises so swiftly that his companion was forced to run after him.
Once back in the main building, they were met by a grim-looking older nun with a coarse complexion. A forbidding creature, she nodded stiffly at them and without a word, led them down the corridor once more to what she called “the day room of the novices,” a spare chamber with little more than a narrow table and benches.
It hardly seemed a cozy place, and for the first time, Robin wondered what kind of life these nuns, even the novices like Sybil, must have. As a de Burgh born into wealth and privilege, he was well used to his comforts, but what comforts did Sybil have? The question disturbed him, and he sank down onto a bench irritably. What did it matter to him how she lived?
“Although the order is gathering in the chapel to say prayers for the dead, as is only proper, the Reverend Abbess has decreed that each must leave, one at a time, to speak with you,” the old nun said, her fierce expression leaving no doubt of her disapproval.
“As for you, Sybil—” her voice a venomous hiss, the nun turned her bulky figure toward the smaller novice in a vaguely menacing fashion that made Robin half rise from his seat, “I assume that you will find some time to appear in the chapel and pray for the one who has left us, especially since you claimed to be her friend.”
Sybil blanched, and Robin stood, immediately taking exception to this harridan who was harrying his…whatever. He had to struggle against the urge to knock the old woman down, although his brain told him that attacking a nun might not be the best way to begin his duties here. Drawing a deep breath, he launched an entirely different type of offense.
“Thank you for your most gracious assistance,” he said, giving the bully his best de Burgh smile, the one with the dimple. After all, he had not grown up around Stephen without learning a few of his older brother’s tricks. “Would you care to be the first to join us?”
The old woman blinked, the only sign that his wiles had dented her rigid facade, but drew herself up stiffly. “I certainly would not! I have other responsibilities that require my attention, along with religious duties that must be observed, though some of us neglect them!” she added, with a cold glance at Sybil.
“Later, then,” Robin said, bowing slightly in a show of graciousness. But his eyes narrowed as he watched her go, putting her to memory, just in case she did not return. Her attitude, though perhaps normal for her, made him wonder if she were avoiding the questions he was bound to ask in pursing the killer.
Turning back to Sybil, Robin was relieved to note that she had regained her color. “What ails her?” he asked, inclining his head toward the doorway.
Sybil shook her head. “That is Maud. She often gets her tail puffy.”
“Her tail puffy?” Robin echoed, bemused.
“Like one of the cats that prowl the gardens and fields when met with another,” Sybil explained.
“She doesn’t seem overly fond of you,” Robin commented.
Sybil shrugged. “She likes very much to be in charge, and considers herself second only to the abbess. No doubt, she resents my assignment.”
“Ah. She would assist me herself,” Robin said, thoughtfully.
Sybil pursed her lovely lips. “Don’t flatter yourself. Maud would rather draw her own conclusions, without answering to anyone. Right now, she probably is put out because she thinks I have the abbess’s favor, which she is always currying. But she is mistaken, for this assignment is a penance,” Sybil noted, making her disdain for his company very clear.
Why did she dislike him so? Robin swallowed the prick to his pride and studied her, but she swiftly turned her face away. Had she something to hide? He wondered once again if her odd behavior stemmed from guilt, but felt a swift, fierce resistance to that notion. Although he had no intention of marrying her, Robin would not care to see her hang for murder. His protective instincts rose to the fore, but he promptly squashed them, reminding himself that Sybil’s troubles were none of his business. As coroner, he would do his best to see justice done, whether the intriguing novice was involved or not.
Robin’s grim musings were interrupted by a faint knock upon the door. Striding forward, he pulled it open, only to hear a gasp as a slight nun eyed him fearfully. It was Catherine, the screamer, so he drew a deep, steadying breath and put on his best de Burgh manners.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Please come in.” He tried to put the nun at ease, for he needed whatever information these women could provide him. His suspicions about Sybil aside, Robin guessed that the killer was someone known to the deceased, probably a man to strike such a blow, though a strong woman like Maud might do such damage as well. And if she got her tail puffy enough, she just might attack, Robin mused.
Still, Elisa’s killer had most likely been a man and one with whom she had had close, perhaps even intimate, contact. Most murders were the result of too much drink or overwrought passions, and since the nun could hardly have been carousing at an alehouse, that left one probability, Robin thought grimly. He hoped that someone at the nunnery knew the identity of the fellow.
Catherine, however, was not that someone. When questioned, she alternated between moaning, crying and useless babbling about a vengeful God. Since Robin was fairly certain that a more earthly being had been involved, he finally let the nun return to the chapel. Although mindful of her mourning, he nonetheless was relieved to be rid of the weepy woman. He had to admit he preferred Sybil’s contempt; it was better than caterwauling.
Robin’s eyes narrowed. For someone who had given him a running argument earlier, the One was being awfully quiet. He slanted her a glance, wondering what was going on in that lovely little head of hers, but she only returned his curious look with a mutinous expression. Obviously, there was no use in pursuing that line of inquiry. He could only guess that she was not speaking to him now that they were alone.
Robin would have been amused, if he hadn’t been so concerned about his investigation. He’d better have more success with the next nun, or he was going to be here forever. That notion made him glance surreptitiously back at the One even as he tugged at his neckline.
“Is there a problem with your clothing?”
Robin blinked, surprised at the sound of her voice, but not by the scornful tone of it. What was she asking? Something about his clothes? He felt heat surge through him even as he lifted his brows in mute question.
She sent him a pointed look. “It just seems to me that your tunic is too tight since