So Worthy My Love (2 page)

Elise could hardly fault the servants for their loyalties, though she was persuaded by the evidence of the Marquess's crimes that he had not deserved such
devotion. After all, he had been judged guilty of foreign intrigue, conspiring to assassinate the Queen, and of trying to conceal his duplicity by the murder of her agent. Still, when she considered how long many of the servants had been at Bradbury, some even before the event of Lord Seymour's birth, three past a score and ten years ago, Elise could understand why they would choose to reject the evidence of his guilt and remain faithful to his memory.

She was determined to remain just as sensitive to her uncle's motives in ridding the house of every reminder of the late Marquess. If the portrait represented a true likeness of the man, then one could assume that Seymour had made quite an impression on Arabella. The loss of such a magnificent suitor would have made any woman resentful of a father who had somehow been involved in his demise. If for no other purpose than to keep peace in his small family, Edward had been justified.

The challenge Elise had found herself faced with since her arrival was dealing with a staff of servants who disliked the squire. Though they kept busy and attended the duties of the house, it was done more out of respect for its previous owner. A confrontation usually ensued after a long period of continual grumbling over Edward's way of doing things. It was not their right to question the squire's orders, Elise instructed them, no matter how inane they seemed to be.

This evening was proving no exception to the rule. She had already scolded several for their unfavorable comparisons between their present master and their last, when she noticed a manservant
dawdling in front of a tapped barrel. This one wore a tunic whose hood covered his head, preventing any glimpse of his features. He stood hunched over his task in such a way that his broad shoulders obstructed her view, giving rise to the suspicion that he was taking liberties with the brew, certainly an unforgivable sin in her uncle's eyes.

Bracing herself for another argument, Elise straightened her spine and smoothed her black velvet gown over the hooped farthingale, assuming her best mien as mistress of a great house. For one so young, she looked very intent and most elegant in her simple but costly garb. A white, lace-edged ruff, conservatively narrow compared to the lavish excesses of court dress, flared out from her throat and rose higher in the back, enhancing the beauty of her oval face. A bloom of rosy color brightened delicately-boned cheeks, setting off a sparkle in the jewel-blue eyes. Those sapphire orbs slanted slightly upward and were thickly fringed with silken lashes of a coal-black hue. Her brows had not been shaved as was the custom of some women, but were slashes of red-brown that swept upward across flawless, lustrous skin. Her rich auburn hair had been parted in the middle and was neatly coifed beneath a pert, black velvet attifet which formed an arc above both sides of her forehead. Two long ropes of pearls hung about her neck
beneath the crisp ruff and swept downward over her bosom. A ruby-encrusted frame served as a clasp at the first full swell of her breast and held a miniature enamel painting, the profile of a woman whose image her father had often said resembled her mother.

Elise hoped she looked as imposing as the subject of the tiny portrait, for the servant would be more likely to give her the respect due her station, than if he were one of those who had witnessed her undignified masquerades as ragged urchin and Hansa youth. Pausing close behind the man, she inquired almost sweetly, “Is the wine to your liking?”

Slowly the hooded head turned until the narrow opening of the deep cowl faced her above a broad shoulder. The covering was drawn up close around the man's face, half masking it, and though his darkly translucent eyes caught the glow of nearby candles and seemed to glimmer at her from the shadows of the hood, she was forbidden a clear view of his features. He seemed much taller and somehow different from the other hirelings, lending to the suspicion that he had come from a different portion of the estate.

“Beggin' yer pardon, mistress. The ol' winemaster bid me sample the brew so's no bitter vetch'd be sourin' the tongues o' these ‘ere foin folk.” Though stubbled with the coarseness of a commoner's speech, his voice was deep and rich, with a full measure of warmth. He raised the flagon he held, tipping it a bit, and thoughtfully contemplated it before tapping his forefinger against its side. “Mark me word, mistress, this ‘ere brew comes from the ol' stock. Has a fair ta middlin' bite, ‘at it does. ‘Tain't none o' ‘at rot this fellow Stamford serves up.”

Elise stared agog at the man, taken aback by his unabashed affront. His audacity pricked her sense
of propriety, and her voice sharpened with sarcasm. “I rather doubt
Squire
Stamford would countenance your judgment
or
your opinion, whatever it may be. Ungrateful wretch! Who are you to cast awry the good intent of one who pays your wage? For shame!”

The hireling heaved a wearisome sigh. “ ‘Tis a pity, it be. A rank, poor pity.”

Elise settled her hands on her slender waist, and her eyes flashed with a feral gleam as she gave him a chiding retort. “Ah, now we would hear it! A complaint! Forsooth! The squire would sooner tolerate grievances from the poor beggars in the streets than from those in his own kitchen. Pray tell, good fellow, have I hindered your freedom to imbibe by my presence?”

The man raised a hand wrapped in ragged strips of cloth and scrubbed it across his mouth. “The squire'd do well ta taste his own stock. ‘Tis a pity ta give ‘ese foin folk 'em bitter dregs what he'd ‘ave us pour.”

“Are you unquestioned as a tapster, or were you just born arrogant?” Elise asked with rampant scorn.

“Arrogant?” The fellow gave a brief chortle tinged with reproof. “Well now! Ye might say I've gots me share. Been ‘round ye high-blooded folk too long.”

Elise caught her breath in high-flying indignation. “You have far more than your fair portion, let me assure you!”

Untouched by her criticism, the servant responded with an indolent shrug. “ ‘Tain't so much arr'gance as
‘tis knowin' good from bad, right from wrong . . . an' sometimes it takes a wee bit o' wit ‘fore ye can tell the difference ‘twixt the two.” Stepping close to the cask again, he began filling a second flagon. “Now when his lor'ship were ‘ere . . .”

“What ho! Another loudly lamenting the loss of the late Marquess! I have never heard the like from so many rebellious servants!” Elise complained. She noted the entry of more trenchers of food and, with an impatient wave of her hand, directed the hirelings to a trestle table some distance away, as yet unwilling to let this oafish knave escape without first setting him in his proper place. “Tell me, is there aught that man was able to teach you about good manners?”

“Aye, ‘at ‘ere was.” The cowl muffled the deep voice as he wiped up spilled droplets with the sleeve of his tunic. “His lordship . . . the Mar'kee . . . ‘Twas his very ways I followed.”

“Then I'll warrant you've had a dreadfully poor tutor,” Elise interrupted brusquely. “ ‘Tis a known fact Lord Seymour was a murderer and a traitor to the Queen. You'd do better to seek another source for your instructions.”

“I've heard 'em tales meself,” the servant replied, and continued with a short, scoffing laugh, “but I canna' put much store in 'em.”

“ ‘Twas more than a tale,” Elise reminded him crisply. “Or at least the Queen thought so. She stripped the man of his holdings and gave them to my uncle. Obviously she recognized the better man.”

The man set the flagon down with a thump and leaned forward as if to confront her with a
denial, unmindful of the cowl that fell away from his lower face. An unkempt beard of a light brown hue masked his jaw, and beneath the ragged wisps of whiskers hanging over his upper lip, his mouth was drawn back in a snarl. “Who made ye his judge, girl? Why, ye ne'er even met the man, an' ye've no ken o' the squire if ye say he's the better man.”

Elise met those eyes which were now strangely piercing within the shadows of the hood. For a moment she was held frozen by the anger she saw blazing there, then she lifted her chin with an elegant air and dared counter his attack. “Are you some ancient sage that you can say whether or nay I met the man?”

Straightening to his full height, the hireling drew back slightly and folded his arms across his chest as he stared down at her with sardonic amusement. At best, the top of her head reached to the point of his bewhiskered chin, and had Elise not tilted her head back, she would have seen naught but a wide expanse of rough sacking covering his chest.

“Beggin' yer pardon, mistress.” He pressed his hand to that broadness in a mocking gesture and swept her a shallow bow of apology. “I ne'er saw ye ‘ere when Lor' Seymour was master, an' I was o' a mind ta think the two o' ye ‘ad ne'er met.”

“Actually we never did,” Elise admitted, a trifle piqued at his challenging manner. The man deserved no explanation, and she wondered why she even bothered giving one. Daring to meet his taunting smile, she lent emphasis to her words. “But I would have known him just the same.”

“Indeed?” He gave her an oblique stare from the depth of the cowl “An' could ye've said ‘twas him or nay had ye looked him in the eye?”

Elise's temper sparked at the servant's insolence. It was obvious he doubted her claim, and perhaps only common sense discouraged him from calling her a liar. Still, memories from a more recent time lingered in her mind, and she found it rather frustrating that she should be haunted by one she desired to forget . . . the portrait of the Marquess. At first, she had laid the cause of her admiration to the mood of the painting. The Marquess's green hunting attire had added a debonair flair, while the pair of wolfhounds waiting alertly at his side had conveyed an adventuresome spirit, but in truth, it had been the handsomely aristocratic features, the darkly lashed green eyes, and the subtly taunting smile which had really attracted her and had compelled her to go back for another glimpse or two.

Elise realized the ragged servant was awaiting her reply with a tolerant stare, as if he regarded her silence as proof of a much-inflated boast. Her annoyance grew by a full measure and added to the crispness in her voice. “Obviously you smirk because you know I cannot prove my claim. The Marquess was killed attempting an escape.”

“Aye, I've heard it said meself,” her antagonist acknowledged. “On his way ta the Tower, he was, when he tried ta break free o' the guards an' was shot dead.” The servant leaned forward again and whispered furtively as if he encountered a dire need for secrecy. “But who's ta say for sure what happened ta the Mar'kee after he tumbled from the
bridge? ‘Ere weren't nary a soul what ever saw him again, an' ‘ere weren't no leavin's what any could find.” He sighed rather sadly. “Aye, ye can reckon 'em fishes feasted well ‘at night, ‘ey did.”

Elise shivered at the gruesome image conjured forth and, with an effort of will, dismissed what seemed to be a deliberate attempt to unsettle her. Purposefully she directed her attention to the matters at hand. “ ‘Tis the present feast we need attend to . . .” She paused, not knowing how to address the man. “I assume your mother gave you a name.”

“Aye, mistress, ‘at she did. Taylor, it be. Just Taylor.”

Elise swept her hand to indicate those seated at the trestle tables and instructed him on his duties. “Then, Taylor, I bid you see to the squire's guests and their cups ere he takes us both to task for dallying.”

With a flourish of his own rag-covered hand Taylor stepped into a flamboyant bow. “Yer servant, mistress.”

Elise was rather astounded by his grace and could not resist a conjecture. “You copy your lord's manners well, Taylor.”

A soft chuckle came from the man as he tugged the cowl closer about his face. “His lor'ship ‘ad as many tutors in his youth as a toad has warts. ‘Twas a game o' mine ta follow what was bein' taught.”

She raised a brow in mild curiosity. “And why is it that you keep your head covered and your face hidden? I've not detected a chill in the hall.”

His answer came quickly enough. “Nay, mistress, ‘ere be no chill. ‘Twas an accident o' birth, ye
see. Why, ‘ere be some what'd swoon at the merest glimpse o' me poor face. I fear ‘twould be a dreadful sight for ‘ese foin folks ta bear.”

Elise refrained from further inquiries, having no wish to view the man's deformities. She spoke a word of dismissal and watched him until assured he was applying himself well to his task. He moved around the trestle tables, refilling a goblet here or providing a new cup there as he alternated the use of the flagons, serving the ladies and elderly from one and replenishing the goblet of the stout-armed, able-bodied men with the other. Silently Elise gave her approval, admiring his foresight in serving a milder wine to give to the less stalwart.

Scanning the hall for more laggards, Elise almost relaxed as she saw that the servants were keeping busy. She let her eyes wander from table to table, assessing what further foods were needed, and failed to notice a guest stepping near until that one pressed close against her back The intruder slid a hand about her narrow waist and, before she could react, bent down to place a light kiss below her ear, just above the ruff.

“Elise . . . fragrant flower of the night . . .” a deep voice warmly crooned. “My soul doth yearn for your favors, sweet maid. Be kind to this poor fellow and let me taste the nectar from your lips.”

Elise's temper exploded. She was not of a temperament to allow such fondling and would set this fellow back upon his heels! She came around with a hand drawn back, ready to strike this arrogant bumpkin who had so foolishly accosted her. Though her weight was slight, she had every bit of
its force behind her and had every intention of landing a damaging blow to the fellow. She had visions of Reland's conceited cousin, Devlin Huxford, nuzzling her neck, for she had noticed how he had ogled her for most of the evening. Her eyes flashed with indignant rage at the thought that he should be so bold, but as she faced the man, her wrist was seized and securely held against her attempts to withdraw. She lifted a smoldering-hot gaze to the dark, swarthy face above her own and met the deep brown eyes that fairly danced with laughter.