Hunting Memories - By Barb Hendee Page 0,76
training and belief in propriety, he walked up to her. “Are you well, my lady?”
She jumped at his voice and squinted as if not recognizing him for a moment. “Oh, Robert . . . yes, I am well. Even better soon. All will be well soon.”
She walked down the path, her lips quiet and still now.
Better soon? What had she meant?
The trio arrived several nights later—hours after darkness had fallen and long past when respectable guests might come calling.
Robert was in the kitchen, drinking a mug of ale before starting his final rounds, when young Francis stuck his head in the door.
“Sir?” he said.
“What is it?” Robert stood up.
“You’d better come.”
Robert followed to the great dining hall, where he found three figures illuminated by a burning candle: two men and a woman. The men were dressed like ruffians in baggy trousers and loose soiled shirts, their hair lank and greasy. They wore cutlass-styled blades on their belts. But he glanced at the men only briefly before his gaze fell upon the woman . . . perhaps only a girl? And he stopped walking.
The moment he entered, she turned and stared at him with large black eyes—true black like her wild hair. She looked maybe nineteen years old, with the pale, glowing skin of someone who seldom went outdoors. Her nose was small, and her mouth was heart-shaped. She wore a burgundy skirt and white blouse with a thin vestment over the top, laced up tightly. She was slender and her hips were narrow, yet the tops of her breasts swelled above the laced vest. Gold rings dangled from her ears, and bracelets clinked on her wrists.
Robert had seen gypsies before, but not one like her. When she turned to look at him, the top of her blouse slipped slightly, exposing her fine-boned shoulder, and he was hit by a rush of physical desire stronger than anything he’d ever felt before. His mind filled with images of her lying beneath him, clawing at his back.
He drew in a breath, cursing himself, and straightened, pushing the images away.
“What are you doing in here?” he demanded.
“We have business with your lady,” the young woman answered.
“I don’t think so,” he answered.
Such rabble had no business with Lady Elizabeth. How had they gotten this far into the house? He’d have Francis on night watch for a month.
“Are they here?” a breathy voice called from the entryway outside, near the bottom of the stairs.
To his surprise, Lady Elizabeth nearly ran into the dining hall. She wore no headpiece, and strands of her hair fell about her face, sticking to her chin. She was holding her skirt off the floor. Robert had never seen her in such an undignified state.
“Oh . . .” she breathed at the sight of the strangers. Motioning toward a back room where the duke sometimes held intimate conferences with other lords, she said, “Quickly, in there.”
“My lady?” Robert asked in confusion. Had Elizabeth indeed called for these . . . people?
She ignored him and hurried past, moving toward the strangers.
The girl was still staring at Robert, almost as if she knew him. Though shaken by his own reaction to her, he had no intention of allowing Elizabeth to take these three into a back room alone. The men looked like thieves or lowborn assassins—or both.
He walked after his lady, gripping the hilt of sword.
She held up one hand. “Wait out here,” she ordered.
He couldn’t believe what was happening. Elizabeth had never deigned to look at such people, much less speak to them.
“My lady?” he repeated, uncertain what to do.
But she ushered all three strangers into the back room, and he was powerless do anything but obey her orders. The gypsy girl continued to stare at him until the door was closed.
He walked over in near panic and stood directly outside, ready to break through the moment he was called. Then he noticed Francis was still standing across the hall in the archway, equally disturbed.
“You’re dismissed,” Robert said. “I’ll speak with you later.”
Francis went pale, turned, and left.
Robert didn’t want anyone else here. His fears did not surround only his lady’s safety. What was she doing? His mind raced for any reason she would call upon armed vagabonds in the middle of the night, and the only possible answer left him cold.
She was arranging to have someone murdered.
Only two choices were possible: either the duke or Bess Holland.
He paced before the door, searching for some way out of this. Though troubled by her