The Heiress Bride. Susan Paul

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      “But where will you go, my lady? And how will you keep from being caught? You know full well that your uncle and Sir Simon will be after you before you can get very far. Oh, please, my lady,” Jeanne pleaded, wringing her small hands, “do not do this! I could not bear to see you beaten again at the hands of Sir Anselm! The next time he might kill you!”

      Determination steeled Rosaleen in spite of the fear that threatened to overtake her. “I have said that I would rather die than wed Simon of Denning,” she replied sharply, “and so do I mean it! Somehow I will manage to keep from being caught.” She struggled to her feet, holding together the bits of what was once one of her most beautiful surcots. Jeanne helped her, but still Rosaleen could not hold back a groan of pain. Her breath came quickly and seemed to catch in her side. “And as to where I shall go,” she went on, forcing the few steps toward her mirrored table, “why, I shall go to King Henry. He must help me, for my father was a great favorite of his father’s as well as being the Earl of Siere, and for that alone he must lend me aid.” She collapsed into the chair set before the mirror. “I shall tell him what my uncle has done, that he has sought to wed me against my will and to steal my rightful inheritance, even my title, from me.” She met her maid’s doubtful gaze in the dim reflection of the polished steel mirror. “He’ll help me, Jeanne,” she insisted. “He will.”

      Jeanne didn’t believe that this was so, for the world was a man’s world, and King Henry was only a man.

      Rosaleen understood the expression on Jeanne’s face, but she refused to be swayed by it.

      “He will help me, I know he will. But you must help me first, else my fate is sealed here and now.”

      Jeanne’s voice trembled as badly as her slight body. “Yes, my lady,” she whispered. “I will help you.”

      

      “Damn you, Hugh! Must you win at every game?” Peter Brenten scowled and picked up the dice before him. “It’s ungodly, that’s what it is. We should have you tried for sorcery. God only knows what a blessing it would be for all the honest gambling men in England.”

      The dark-haired man sitting across from him laughed, settling back in his chair and draining off a good part of his ale.

      “Now, Peter, don’t go saying things that aren’t true.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You forget that you won against me only three days ago, at Newcombe.”

      “At Newcombe!” Peter repeated. “Bah! We wagered for a mere draft of ale. Why is it that I always win whenever the stakes are little, while you win whenever it pleases you?” He tossed the dice on the table, saw the outcome and swore loudly, drawing more laughter from his friends.

      “You’ll never learn, Pete, lad,” Stewart of Byrne said with a laugh. “I was well taught back in Rouen not to wager with Hugh Caldwell. I’ll never forget how he fleeced me till I was naked as a babe. He has the devil’s own luck, don’t you, Hugh?”

      Hugh paused only long enough in counting the money Peter had passed him to flash his companions a charming smile. “Friends, friends,” he said soothingly, “I deny such a charge. I have it on the very best authority that I am always innocent in such matters as these.”

      Stewart of Byrne laughed outright. “And what poor, misguided soul ever told you such a lie, man? ‘Twas certainly no man who has ever met you across a table.”

      Grinning, Hugh pocketed his winnings in a leather pouch. “Nay, ‘twas my mother,” he admitted, gazing heavenward. “God bless her sweet soul.”

      “Mmm,” Sir Gerald Walson intoned. “That may be as it is, Hugh, but your mother probably never had the pleasure of gambling with you. It’s a damned good thing we’ll be quit of one another on the morrow, else none of us but you would have a mite to call his own. Oh, hell. Hand me the dice, Peter. I’m ten kinds of fool but I’ll try my luck once more on our last night together. What odds will you give me, Caldwell?”

      “The same as always, Gerry,” Hugh replied. “But first I want more ale. Gaming with you fellows is thirsty business, I vow. Here, girl!” he called into the smoky depths of the Red Fox Inn, but the serving maid who had hovered dutifully about them all night didn’t appear. A commotion at the far end of the room kept her, and everyone else in the tavern, occupied.

      “What’s going on there?” Peter Brenten wondered aloud, straining to see better.

      “It’s…a woman, I think,” Stewart of Byrne said, standing half out of his chair. “Mmm, covered down to her feet and arguing with the innkeeper. I wonder what she’s about.”

      “A whore, mostlike,” Sir Gerald put in, making an experimental toss with the dice. “Though she must be an ugly one if she’s covered up.”

      Hugh contemplated the situation across the room with growing anticipation. His nightly brawl was going to come about easily, it seemed.

      “I rather think she’s trying to cover her beauty,” he said thoughtfully. “Our portly innkeeper is drooling over the sight of her. I’m sure she’s having none of that, though.” He laughed. “That old man is the last thing I’d want to take to bed, and that’s as sure as the new day dawning.”

      “I don’t think the old man’s going to get her,” Stewart of Byrne said, sitting down again. “Her first customers for the night have just arrived. Three knights of the realm it seems, though she looks no happier with them than with the innkeeper.”

      “I’d welcome having a woman tonight,” Peter Brenten said, his eyes wandering over the girl’s slim, cloaked figure. “I wonder how quick she is. Mayhap I’ll have a visit with her when she’s finished with those fellows.”

      “Not with her, you won’t,” Hugh said, standing and placing a light hand on his sword. “It’s the tavern wench for you, Pete, old lad. This one’s mine.”

      All three of his friends looked at him and groaned as one.

      Peter Brenten put his head in his hands. “God’s toes, Hugh, not tonight.”

      “Tonight of all nights!” Stewart of Byrne said angrily. “Can we not have a little peace on our last eve together?”

      “One would think you’d have had enough troublemaking at the inn we destroyed last night,” Sir Gerald added, putting the dice aside with a look of regret. “And I’ll have you know that I don’t appreciate setting up against my fellow knights.” Hugh Caldwell’s green eyes glittered mischievously. “Don’t start feeling badly for what you are, Gerry. You’re the only dubbed man I can tolerate next to my own brothers. And we did not destroy the White Bull last night,” he insisted. “We only…rearranged it.”

      “Damn you, Hugh Caldwell!” Sir Gerald returned angrily, checking the readiness of his own sword. “What’s gone wrong with you? We haven’t had a night’s peace since setting foot in Britain three weeks past. You were never so troublesome in France.”

      Hugh made no reply but kept his eyes on the girl, who was struggling with the biggest of the men facing her. Stewart had spoken true…the girl didn’t want these particular customers, which only made the matter of taking her for himself that much simpler. What the big fighting men would think, well…Hugh’s mouth relaxed into a confident smile.

      The knight who held СКАЧАТЬ