After the Storm (3 page)

Her horse was still nervous, so she got down out of the high-backed saddle and stood on the ground, patting and stroking the animal to calm it. "Can I get you anything?" she asked, touching her cheek to the soft velvet of the horse's muzzle.

"An apple? Some fresh grass? A sedative?" She was still exhilarated from the adrenaline rush of the fight. She supposed she should be ashamed of herself, but she had always had a weakness for adventures. She was glad she'd reacted automatically to the situation, just like she'd been trained.

"That wasn't so bad," she murmured as Marj came up to her. "Actually, it was fun. Which, is, of course, a very immature way of looking at it and I should be ashamed." She looked at the disheveled historian. "You okay?"

Marj nodded, then leaned close and whispered, "'Oh, good, an outlaw'?" Libby couldn't help but smile at the woman's outraged tone. "Just what sort of research are you doing in the thirteenth century, Wolfe?"

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

"I'll tell you later," Libby answered as Sir Reynard rode up once more.

He swung down off his horse to stand before them. He was tall for the era, so Libby had to look up a bit to meet his gaze. He had a hard-edged, ruthless look to him at the moment that reminded her a bit of her father. She shook her head at the notion of any resemblance. This man was a stranger. He'd told her that he was new to the area, on his way from London to take up his duties in the shire.

She knew she was just grasping at any hint of might-be memory and would have to be careful not to make up her past life instead of actually getting it back.

Reynard gave her a perfunctory nod. "I'm sorry, my lady, but we'll not be going on to Lilydrake today." Before she could protest he gestured at the men his soldiers had captured. "I've got to lock this lot up, and Lilydrake's not fit to house prisoners."

"But—"

"We'll be turning aside for Passfair Castle," he hurried on past her faint protest.

"I'm told Sir Stephan DuVrai has strong walls and a stout keep where my prisoners and you ladies will both be safe. In different parts of the castle," he added with a charming flash of dimples.

"But—"

"You know the DuVrai family, I think. I've heard that your families are closely connected."

The man had certainly researched his new job before leaving London. Libby nodded. "They're my godparents, but I haven't seen them in—"

"You'll be welcomed then." He gave her another nod and got back on his horse, the matter settled to his satisfaction.

Libby stared bleakly after him as he rode over to supervise his men while they tied up the prisoners. She didn't want to go to Passfair. She wanted to go to Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

Lilydrake and get her memory back. At Passfair she'd have to continue playing the role of Isabeau, eat the local food, sleep on straw, put up with the damp, smoky rooms, the smells, endure the pure discomfort that was daily life in even a top-of-the-line medieval castle. Even if Lilydrake were a completely burned out ruin she and the others could break out their modern camping equipment and have some of the comforts of the twenty-first century.

She sighed, and tried to be philosophical about it. She wasn't going to Lilydrake, not yet. She was going to visit her godparents.

"Oh, goody."

"Please, God," Marj whispered, "don't let her say anything to him." She had no hope of her prayers being answered as the priest continued to drone on. While Libby was obviously trying to retain an expression of polite neutrality as Passfair's chaplain expounded his misogynist theories, her eyes glinted with the light of battle. Marj watched helplessly while the young woman's fingers plucked nervously at the bread trencher she shared with the DuVrais' oldest son, Henry. Father John had been talking to Henry throughout dinner while he occasionally directed a pointed glance at Libby. He was ostensibly instructing the young man, who was apparently due to get married soon, in the proper treatment of his wife. But his words were pointed at the castle's guest. He seemed to have taken a dislike to Lady Isabeau the moment he heard that she was heiress to the neighboring property. He had firm ideas about women having any freedom whatsoever. The evening meal was dragging on and on and the priest didn't seem to be winding down.

Marj did not blame Libby for her annoyed reaction. In fact, she would be happy to get up and punch the man out herself, but that would be interfering, and interfering was against the rules.

"Observe, don't impact," she muttered the History Department slogan to herself.

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

Sir Reynard, however, had very good ears. "What's that?"

"Excuse me?" Marj countered, hoping she'd spoken in Norman. She'd been speaking far too much English while traveling with Libby, foe and Ed and was worried her own disguise might have slipped. Mostly because being around Reynard made her feel a bit giddy and reckless.

He was seated beside her at the high table, a large, masculine presence she wished she could ignore. Despite her efforts to remain an uninvolved observer there was something about the man that made her want to do far more than watch him interact with his environment. There was something about the twinkle in his bright blue eyes that frequently belied his serious demeanor. He was a raw-boned, craggy, graying inhabitant of another world whom she had no business being attracted to.

"You said something about observing," the sheriff said as he handed her the winecup they shared. "I think observation is a fine knack to have in carrying out my duties."

"In my own as well," Marj answered. "It's my duty to keep a close watch on my lady's needs and circumstances."

"Of course."

Their gazes met, and their fingers brushed as the wine was passed between them.

The jolt of the contact almost made Marj forget what they were discussing.

Fortunately, for her own presence of mind, if not for the good of the assignment, it was at this moment that Libby chose to speak to the priest—loudly.

"Do you really believe women don't have souls?"

Lady Sibelle had wondered just how long it was going to take her guest to react to Father John's ridiculous notions. Isabeau had the look of both her parents about her. She had Jehane's dark coloring and tall slenderness, Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

Jehane's dark eyes as well, and a more delicate version of Daffyd's strong nose and elegant cheekbones. She was a beauty, and, more than that, she was a woman of spirit. Oh, she seemed shy and spoke little, but in the few hours since her arrival at Passfair Keep Sibelle had discerned not only intelligence, but strength mixed with some deep pain driving her goddaughter.

"Well?" Isabeau demanded when the priest ignored her.

"I think I hear the buzzing of a little Welsh fly," was the only acknowledgment the chaplain gave to Lady Isabeau's words. "Or the buzzing of a meddling female." He gave a negligent wave of his hand. "It is all the same."

"What—?" Isabeau asked. There was a dangerous edge to the girl's voice. Sibelle half expected the contents of the girl's winecup to be flung in Father John's face.

She half hoped it would be.

"Learn silence and humility, woman."

"I'd rather learn how to kick your black-robed bu—"

"My lady!" Isabeau's lady-in-waiting said as she hurried to Isabeau's side. Sibelle had watched Lady Marjorie's growing concern as well and was glad that she came to her lady's side.

"I have a headache," Isabeau said as she turned to Marjorie. She touched her fingertips to her temples. She had gone pale. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"Women never do," Father John said.

To Sibelle's annoyance, her son responded to this exchange with a cold laugh.

"Stephan," she said in her usual mild way as she placed her hand over her husband's.

Stephan brushed his lips against her forehead. "Matilda is crying again," he observed before he straightened and looked sternly at the priest. "You disturb my Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

guest. Father."

"Your guest has too sharp a tongue, my lord," Father John replied easily. "My duty is to correct such behavior, do you not agree?"

"Not at my dinner table, it isn't," Stephan responded sharply. "Henry," he added,

"go to the chapel with the good father and pray."

"But—"

"Now. Take Matilda with you," he added as Henry and the priest got to their feet. "Spend time with your betrothed," Stephan commanded in a quieter voice as Henry moved past him.

Henry sneered and said, "Matilda has no place in my prayers."

Sibelle shook her head unhappily. She glanced at the end of the table where poor Matilda sat, alone, dejected and dripping with tears. Matilda had been crying since she arrived at Passfair the week before. Henry showed no interest in her, she showed none in him. He was rude, she was frightened. The situation was completely miserable.

Sibelle looked to Isabeau. Her friend's daughter did not look well, but she still looked in better condition than poor Matilda. Isabeau was a woman of vitality, Sibelle was sure of that. Like her mother, Sibelle thought, and glanced back at Matilda. And that child reminded her of herself all those years ago, when she'd arrived at Passfair confused and lost and in need of a friend. The sort of friend Jehane had been to her.

Sibelle stood. "Take Lady Isabeau to the guest bower. I'll prepare a potion to help her headache." And once her head was clear, Sibelle thought, she and Isabeau would have a little talk.

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

Chapter 2

"
My mom's right
, I need a baby-sitter."

"I guess you do," Marj answered. "You feel okay?"

"No. But compared to the kind of headaches I had just after the accident I'm fine.

I should have kept my mouth shut, though."

The guest bower was a small, dark room on the second floor of the tower. It contained one curtained bed and a long flat chest that doubled as storage space and somewhere to sit. Libby sat on the chest with her arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees. She watched as Marj moved restlessly across the room. She was miserable and confused and furious with herself for causing a scene down in the hall.

"Yes," Marj agreed as she paced in front of her, stirring up the scent of herbs in the dry rushes as she moved. Libby winced at the sarcasm in the woman's voice.

"I know that these people's opinions are none of my business. I didn't come here to cause trouble, Marj. I

guess I'm not as prepared to interact with the locals as I thought I was. It's not easy."

Marj stopped pacing and turned on her. "I know. I've spent five years in the same village. It's been very hard staying an outsider, but it can be done."

"This is harder than I thought it would be. I haven't had one of these stupid Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

headaches for a while. I guess I'm not as ready to cope as I thought." She sighed.

"I remember that it was fun pretending to be part of this world the times I came here as a kid." She sighed again. "I'm not quite myself, you know."

"Then who are you?" Marj sounded both teasing and sympathetic. "You said you'd tell me about your research later. Well, it's later."