Lady Thief - By Rizzo Rosko Page 0,58

he forcefully lowered his arm. He stared down at her and again Marianne awaited her punishment. A slap, an insult, anything was better than waiting.

Instead he clenched both fists, held them firmly at his sides, then gave her his back and stalked in the other direction.

She watched him go, his hard footsteps echoing in the empty hall. She only realized when he was gone that Olma was clutching the sleeves of Marianne’s gown like a frightened child.

Marianne looked down at her. She had never seen a face so devoid of color. She put her arm around Olma’s shoulder, putting their differences in station behind her long enough to offer the younger girl some comfort.

“Do not shake so, there is nothing to fear.”

Olma shook her head, then, for the first time, looked Marianne in the eyes without needing to be prompted into doing so. “‘Tis the first time I ‘ave ever heard anyone say such a thing aloud.”

Marianne opened her mouth to tell her that ‘twould also be the last time, but looking up and behind her young servant, she spotted Adam.

He said nothing, merely stood and watched her comfort a woman below her, no question or judgment in his eyes.

When had he arrived? Was his presence the only reason she had not felt Blaise’s anger through the palm of his hand?

She shook her head. No, he was not the reason. Blaise’s furious eyes had remained on her, not glimpsing behind her or in any other direction. The only reason she did not have a bruise on her face was that Blaise was more skilled at controlling himself than she was. If only by a little.

Adam approached both of them, nodding respectfully to Marianne after briefly gazing at Olma, who looked at the floor.

His tone of voice, while soft, contained a no hint of the submissive nature most servants spoke with, that many of the servants in the castle had begun speaking with again once Marianne got through to them. He spoke as her equal. He meant his words. “With all due respect, ‘tis not wise to ask such questions of the young lord, milady. ‘Tis not only Blaise you insult.”

The other people she had insulted with her brash claim came to mind. Truthfully, had she thought of them first, Marianne would not have said what she said. “I meant no harm to William…or Blaise,” the last name reluctantly left her lips.

Still, what had once been mere idle curiosity had turned into something so much larger. It would not be ignored.

She was right, Blaise was not William’s son, and she looked back to where Blaise had retreated and voiced herself. “My assumption is correct, I know it is.”

Adam’s body tensed and Marianne immediately became aware of his position in the castle. “William trusts you more than any other servant here, you must know why he allows Blaise to stay.”

Olma whimpered.

“Blaise is his son, that’s reason enough for most, milady.” He spoke uneasily, no sarcasm in his voice, only panic as he searched for a way to escape.

She tried to make light of the situation, certainly ‘twas only a poor subject because the silence of so many people made it so.

Hands on her hips, she demanded her answers. “Why is this such a secret? I have known since the first time I laid my eyes upon Blaise and Robert together that Robert sired him. Why will no one speak it aloud?”

Marianne looked at Olma for an answer when Adam did not, all traces of equality gone from him with her prying questions. Olma remained useless with her head down.

“Perhaps that is a question for your husband, milady.” Adam seemed to have produced the words without thinking. His brows shot up with the foolishness of his words the second he said them. He lifted his hands and waved them, as though waving her away from the idea. “Nay, milady, do not ask him, he would be displeased.”

“I am displeased.” Marianne thought back to the letter Blaise wrote her, the one denying her the chance to wed him after he had discovered her age, and through some source of information in which she was not aware, of her father’s gambling debts.

A shriveled old hag. He had called her a shriveled old hag who could never possibly give birth to anything but a shriveled old infant.

The spoiled swine. He wrote the letter and sent it off with no regard to her feelings. He was not so young himself, eighteen already and still not wed.

Marianne knew