Wildewood Revenge (14 page)

There was no other way. He must send a message to the bishop. He was reluctant nevertheless. He’d told her fate had crossed their paths and he believed in fate. She’d accused him of using her and she was
correct, but she really had no idea of just how safe she was here at
W
ildewood
under his protection o
r what dangers lurked beyond the walls. It made him uncomfortable to think he might be putting her in danger by merely sending the message.

He wondered about her. S
he claimed she was not of the convent and he was inclined to believe her, if her behaviour was anything to go by. But if she wasn’t a nun, who was she? The way she dressed
,
the way she spoke, were strange. Even the way she behaved towards him wasn’t what one would expect. Yes, she’d initially been fearful, and who could blame her when one considered the circumstances under which they’d met, but now she appeared scare
d of no one and it was her self-
confidence that worried him most.

She believed she could manipulate h
im by using her feminine wiles
but she was naive to think it would work. He could see straight through her and as such would not be led along by her little games. But other men, men she might meet on her way to meet the bishop, may not be as self-controlled. He rubbed his palms across his cheeks. He could do without the added responsibility
of having to worry about her b
ut she was his responsibility. He had brought her here
,
after all.

He would give it a week. A week
would allow her to calm herself
and become more accustomed to her plight. A week would allow him to deliberate on the whole ransom business.

Chapter Fifteen

It was mid-
afternoon and the weak sunlight was rapidly diminishing when he finally returned to
Wildewood
. He cantered across the snow covered parkland and in through the double gates which were closed and bolted behind him by Edmund.

“Where is our guest?” he asked as he dismounted and led his horse to the stables.

Edmund smiled.
“In the kitchen garden with the little lad, Linus.”

“Doing what? It’s thick with snow.”

“Go and see for
yerself
,” suggested Edmund. Miles handed him the reins, and headed for the garden. In his mother’s day it was a magical place. She’d a way with plants, growing many flowers, fruits and vegetables. He recalled idyllic days as a young child playing hide and seek amongst the plants. He closed his eyes briefly and could still see the beauty of it and smell the aromatic scent of the herb garden. Now, covered with snow
,
it had a different desolate kind of beauty. He owed it to his mother to bring it back to life.

A movement caught his eye, and there in the
centre of the garden was Grace
on her knees in the snow. Next to her
,
bundled up in a thick woollen shawl
,
was Linus and together they were making a figure out of snow. The figure wore a hat and had stones for eyes. Linus was trying to find more stones and Grace was showing him how to stick them into the soft face to make the figure smile.

Her gown was wet where she knelt in the snow and her fingers red with the cold. The
little boy by contrast was pink-
faced and snug under his many layers, a picture of happiness. She laughed, unaware he was watching. He approached them slowly, unwilling to spoil the moment.

“Here let me help you.” He offered
his hand. “You’re wet and cold.
T
ime to bring Linus in.”

She slipped her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her feet. Her hand was frozen and he could see she held her leg stiffly. Perhaps not the best position for her wound to heal.

“I see you have found a playmate.” Miles smiled at the boy who gave Grace an adoring look. Was no one immune to her charms? “Run in to the kitchen and ask Martha to
get you something warm to drink. T
ell her I said you were to have it.”

The child looked to Grace
,
who nodded, and then he was off running in the clumsy way of a five year old
,
skidding and almost, but not quite, falling. Miles was unreasonably rattled that the boy sought Grace’s permission to leave.

“This was my mother’s garden,” he said quietly as he considered letting go of her
,
then thought better of it and tucked her hand under his arm to steady her as they walked. “She liked to grow things, had a gift some would say. I would like to see it brought back to life someday.”

“My grandfather was the gardener in our family. The garden at Kirk
Knowe
is beautiful. He planned everything and every corner was brimming with flowers. Of course the garden is still beautiful, but not the same as when he was there tending it. I think the garden knows he’s gone.” She glanced at Miles.

“When did your grandfather die?” he asked.

“A couple of years ago,” she replied sadly. “When did your mother?”

Miles looked down at her and for a moment was reluctant to answer.
“A long time ago.
I was merely a boy. I think you’re correct about the garden, it knows she’s gone.”

“It can still be made beautiful,” said Grace. “Come the spring, all the
new shoots will emerge and you’ll see what’s left and what needs to be replanted. Maybe you’ll have ideas of your own to add to hers. My grandfather told me that’s what gardens were all about, changing and evolving. My grandmother changed her mind so many times about what she wanted that in the end he scattered seeds to the wind so they grew where they fell. That way she couldn’t blame him if they grew in the wrong place.”

“Sensible man,” said Miles, as they made their way indoors. “So, your grandfather was a gardener, you
r father a teacher and musician,
and your mother enjoyed the arts. What about you
,
Grace, did you inherit any of their talents?”

Grace wrinkled her nose thoughtfully for a moment. “I do know a bit about gardening, I was brought up by my grandparents after all, and as for music, I know my way around a few musical instruments. But I don’t paint anymore.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged and looked away. “No time
,
I suppose.”

Miles caught the delicate flush on her cheeks and said nothing. Twice now he’d caught her in a falsehood.
Two lies about trivial things: t
he first regarding the l
ighting of the fire; the second
about her painting. In his experience
,
people lied for a reason, usually to hide something. His curiosity was aroused; he would discover the truth eventually.

“Perhaps you can offer some advice with regard to the garden?”

“I won’t be here long enough, will I?” replied Grace as they entered the kitchen.

Miles shot her a look. “Remember what I said this morning, Grace,” he cautioned.

She sent him a teasing smile. “Oh yes
, of course, loose lips. How
could I forget?
”

Miles shook his head with exasperation. By the end of the week she would have the entire household wrapped around her finger. He couldn’t afford to wait a week. He would send the messenger tomorrow.

*
 
*
 
*

That evening Martha cooked wild boar and winter vegetables
,
and everyone dined together in the great hall. The fire was banked up
,
and despite the chill outside, the hearth was a warm and inviting place to be. Tom
Pandy
alternated between the pipes and the
rebec
,
and John surprised Grace when he revealed himself as a master story telle
r. He held the youngsters spell
bound with tales of other worldly creatures and in particular the mythical beast living at the bottom of the ancient
Ahlborett
Lake. Martha crossed herself at the mention of the beast and Edmund and Belle giggled at her discomfort. Belle sat next to Edmund and had eyes only for
him. Miles smiled his approval;
far better the lad be kept busy by the likes of Belle than waste his time making doe eyes at Grace.

The mead was free flowing and as the evening wore on the music got more soulful and the youngsters quietened, as first Linus then Edmund and Belle rested their heads on the table and slept. Miles said very little but when the story ended he leaned across and took up the instrument Tom had played earlier and placed it in front of Grace.

“Will you honour us with a tune, Grace?” he asked with a smile. Martha and John added their entreaties while Tom
Pandy
waited to accompany her. Grace fingered the warm wood of the small stringed instrument gently. She appeared reluctant and Miles wondered whether
memories of her father caused her reticence. She glanced at him and he nodded his encouragement.

Picking up the bow
,
she appeared confused, as if unfamiliar with Tom’s handmade
rebec
. Miles watched with growing interest as she first tried the instrument beneath her chin then settled it more comfortably, as it should be, on her knee and spent a few moments tuning the instrument. She chose to play a simple lilting piece that filled the cavernous space with its haunting purity. Tom soon caught the gist of it and joined in, on the pipes while Martha and John clapped and stamped their feet in time to the music.

Miles listened and watched. Mellow with drink he stretched out his legs, worked the kinks out of his shoulder muscles and relaxed back on his seat. Was there anything she could not do well? His mind began to wander as he pondered on her many talents and he wondered about those he had yet to sample. Imagination was wonderful, but there was no excuse for the real thing.

She finished to applause and returned to her seat, embarrassment at the fuss colouring her cheeks. She was flushed and no doubt thirsty, and despite an earlier vow never to tempt her with alcohol again, Miles produced a flagon of wine
,
and to his amusement she drank heartily from her goblet. Replacing the empty vessel on the table
,
she wiped a dribble of liquid from her chin with the back of her hand
,
and as she did so
,
their eyes met and what he saw in hers made his resolve falter. She had absolutely no idea how much danger she was in.

They both shared a glance far longer than was polite or decent
,
and he felt his loins respond as her cheeks pinked under his lazy review. He allowed his gaze to lower and imagine a litt
le more. She should turn away. C
ould
she not see how she tempted him?
Did she not understand
just how little encouragement would be needed? But she did not
,
and when his gaze returned to her face
,
she was still watching.

He leaned forward
and took her hand, his eyes never leaving hers, oblivious to the others at the table. John had begun another tale which had Martha and Tom spellbound and they had gathered their chairs against the fire for effect more than warmth
,
for this tale was of a fiery dragon perched atop the
Danestone
guarding the valley. Miles and Grace heard none of the story.

“It’s late,” Grace eventually whispered, when the feel of her palm, and his lustful thoughts had become almost unbearable. He had the urge for her to squeeze more than just his hand
,
and the act of keeping his fingers still was turning into some hideous torture. This was not good,
certainly not part of his plan,
and he realised it was suddenly very important not to emit the wrong signals. He was teasing her, testing her and yet he realised it was his own resolve and self-control being tested. He wasn’t sure of his ability to maintain control of the situation. He wondered at the power she wielded so innocently and thought again of witches.

“Mm,” he murmured as he continued to watch, transfixed. Absently stroking the silken skin of her inner wrist with his thumb
,
he found himself obsessing about those indigo butterflies. She really was appealing and the more he considered her, the more appealing she became.

“I think I should go to bed now,” added Grace breathlessly. The hesitancy in her voice could be taken two ways. He shifted between the two, uncertain whether she wetted
her lips with a delicate tongue
through fear or anticipation.

“Perhaps you should,” replied Miles but he kept hold of her hand
and wondered just ho
w far she would play the game, t
he sound of her soft whisper playing havoc with the few good intentions he had left.

He watched as she swallowed and eventually dragged her eyes from his. He was left wondering who’d been playing who. He didn’t even bother to hide the flare of amusement which flashed in his eyes in response to her lowered lashes. Time to admit defeat
,
he decided. Whethe
r she was playing a game or not was debateable;
whether she shared his reaction was not in doubt. The mistake she’d made was in believing she could control what had been started. She was out of her depth and unwittingly dragging him into the murky waters with her. He doubted his ability to save them both. He barely had the resolve to save himself.

He rose from the table with a backward scrape of hi
s chair against the stone flags,
slowly bringing her with him and as he did so the slightest tug of his hand brought her up against him. She had to tip back her head to look at him properly and she placed a hand against his chest to keep him at bay. He cock
ed his head and smiled at her. S
he was very nearly gone, but not quite...

“Enough,” she said so quietly he barely heard, but he did detect the tremble in her voice as she asserted herself
,
and he narrowed his eyes and smiled to himself.
No, not nearly enough
.

“Good night, my lady,” he said with a bow and a smile
,
and watched as she crossed the hall and hurried up the stairs. No, not nearly enough, but he had all the time in the world and she wasn’t going anywhere yet.

“Another drink, my lord?” said John shrewdly.

“Is it that obvious, John?” sighed Miles as he slumped back in the chair.

“Indeed so.”

“Then that is my dilemma, John, for I have a fancy I may want her, but I cannot keep her. Similarly, I cannot tolerate the thought that another may take her.”

“You mean take her before you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But that is surely what you meant, my lord, and if that is so then what is to stop y
ou. You do not need to keep her
in order to take her.”

Miles stared after her.
John was correct
,
he was the lord here. He had rights and privileges if he chose to as
sert them.
“And, John
,
do you consider that to be the honourable thing to do?”

“Since when did honour have anything to do with the cravings of a young lord?”

“You may be right, John. Y
ou know me better than any man.”

John dipped his head in acknowledgement. “A dilemma indeed for you, my lord, but you will fathom the answer, I have no doubt. However, from experience, I would wager the answer may be found whe
n considering not what you want
but what she wants”

“I know what she wants, John. She wants to go home.”

Chapter Sixteen

Miles rode out early next morning, alone. He was headed
across the border into Scotland
where he knew he could find a man willing to arrange for his message to be taken all the way to the Bishop of Durham, no questions asked. The same man would also be able to supply him with the information he needed about the man responsible for his mother’s death.

A wanted man, Alexander Stew
art had orchestrated many cross-
border raids to rustle sheep and cattle. He was the bane of the English barons, costing
them
livestock and many men. A ruthless killer
and a hero amongst his own kin,
his biggest threat to the English was his ability to rally men to his cause. He had at his disposal many hundred kinsmen who
,
despite not being regular men at arms
,
were nevertheless experienced and fearless
,
and would drop everything at his calling. For these reasons Alexander Stewart was given a very wide berth by the English. There was a substantial price on his head but to date no one had found the courage to try to claim it. He was a very hard man to find.

The roadside ale house where Miles chose to wait was not picked by him at random. The Two
Tups
was a notorious haunt for villains
,
and any law abiding citizen who valued his skin wou
ld have avoided it at all costs. H
owever
,
Miles knew if he’d any chance at all of a meeting
,
he would have to take the risk. The building itself was an aging timber framed structure that leaned perilously to one side. Word was, warring clans had pushed the structure off its foundations during a battle when one of the parties were holed up inside. In truth Miles thought it more likely the boggy ground had influenced the slippage, but the story was told and retold by those who frequented the place
,
and who was he to
argue?

He left his horse with the stable lad
,
along with a tip and the promise of more to come if the horse and the tack were still there when he came back. The tip was significantly more than the lad could have got for the horse should he choose to steal it and sell it on. Miles was content his horse was safe while he waited inside.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Miles stood in the doorway a moment while his eyes adjusted to the dark and smoky interior. He counted six men at the bar and another ten sitting in groups of two or three at tables
. They all turned to assess him
and he rightly judged his position as precarious. He resisted the urge to grip the handle of his dagger as he made his way through the cramped space to the bar. The innkeeper broke off his conversation with two kilted clansmen.

“What can a git ye, stranger?”

Miles indicated the barrel of ale with a nod of
his head. He was loath to speak
as he would immediately be known as not only English but of noble birth and an enemy, but he had come here for a reason.

“I’m looking for Alexander of the Stewart clan.” All eyes in the building turned to look and all ears tuned in to listen.

“Ah
dinnae
ken the man.” The innkeeper slammed a jug of ale down onto the bar, slopping the contents over Miles’ outstretched hand.

Miles ignored the animosity and nodded. “I’ll sit and wait awhile. Perhaps he’ll hear I need to speak with him.”

“As ah say, ah
dinnae
ken yon man, but who are ye
t’be
askin
’ for him?”

“Miles, Miles of
Wildewood
.” In his peripheral vision Miles saw two of the previously seated men rise and leave the building with a nod at the innkeeper. His message was sent.