The Bride Of Windermere. Margo Maguire

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      Chapter Two

      “You may loosen your grip, sir knight,” Kit fumed. “Your mount’s back is as broad as a barge. I don’t see how you could possibly think I might fall.”

      Kit had never been wedged quite so intimately between a man’s thighs before. It was a disturbing experience but she ached so very badly and was so weary from the long, sleepless night in the cottage, that she actually leaned back against Wolfs hauberk. He loosened his grip nominally and grunted his displeasure.

      She knew she had to be wary of him. He was a man after all, and she’d had plenty of experience with the men of Baron Somers’ entourage. Besides, Wolf was the one who’d taken advantage of her the night before.

      It was reassuring to know that Wolf didn’t recognize her as the nymph at the lake. She decided it would be easy, as well as prudent to keep up her disguise all the way to London. She was aware of the value of being a filthy, unattractive urchin, as opposed to a clean, well-groomed young lady. Her stepfather and his ornery men had taught her that lesson one rainy afternoon several years before. By sheer luck, Lady Edith had arrived and inadvertently interrupted the incident. Kit had come out of it unscathed and far wiser.

      She hated to admit that it wasn’t unpleasant to have the knight’s strong arms around her now, even if he did hold her too tightly. She might even allow herself to believe he felt a bit protective of her—something no one had ever felt before. It was a strange sensation, imagining someone caring for her.

      As they rode, she wondered what King Henry wanted with her, a homely, countrified girl of Northumberland. The king had been so busy fighting the French and gaining a French wife, she couldn’t imagine how he would even know of her existence, much less have the time or inclination to think of her.

      All Kit knew of her own background was that her true father had died before her birth. Her mother was Meghan, daughter of Trevor Russell, the late Earl of Meath in Ireland. How her mother had come to be married to Thomas Somers was beyond Kathryn’s knowledge, but somehow it had happened and Kit had become the man’s daughter. She had vague recollections of Lord Somers before Meghan’s death, and the baron hadn’t seemed so slovenly or brutal then. In fact, it was only after the baron married Lady Edith and had daughters of his own, that the baron had started drinking overmuch. And Kit’s life had begun to deteriorate.

      In view of Kit’s existence up to now, she couldn’t understand the sovereign’s reason for having her brought to London. Bridget seemed particularly certain that the best course for Kit was to follow the king’s command and to put Rupert Aires and Somerton behind her. The old nurse desperately wished for a change of circumstances for her young charge.

      Kit hadn’t seen a mirror in years, and she was well aware she did not possess a comely face. Edith and her daughters made certain that Kit knew their opinion of each and every one of her features and flaws, from the miserable devil’s dent in her “too strong” chin to her hair—“lacking in color, just like the hay in the fields,” though it was curly and absolutely unruly. The rest of the Somers family towered over her, and they made it clear they thought her small stature inferior to their height. Her eyes were too green and her skin as pale as the thick cream they skimmed off the top of the bucket. Thanks to her stepfamily, she knew there was nothing right about her. No wonder Rupert hadn’t come for her yet. But he would, Kit reassured herself. He would.

      Homely as she was, the servants liked her and did her bidding easily. Kathryn became accustomed to running the household since her stepmother had no interest in it. Kit had a good memory and an even better head for figures, which served her well in handling her stepfather’s accounts. When the baron’s steward had died three years before, Kit stepped in to deal with the income from the demesne and to oversee the peasants’ workweeks. It became unnecessary for Lord Thomas to replace the steward, and Kit realized the value of being needed. She consciously worked to become essential to Baron Somers.

      She hoped that if he needed her badly enough, he wouldn’t kill her in a drunken rage.

      As well as her unusual academic skills, Kit also learned a great deal about healing plants and herbs from one of the monks who came to Somerton regularly to trade for the abbey. In fact, Kit maintained a garden of medicinal plants, right beside her precious rose arbor. She often went with Brother Theodore on his healing missions among the villein and townspeople at Somerton and developed considerable skill in the medicinal arts.

      Bridget decried Kit’s favorite pastimes. Kit loved to ride her horse astride, wearing breeches. Nothing was more invigorating than racing horseback through the meadows and feeling the wind on her face and in her hair. She enjoyed shooting her sling or her arrows and testing her skill against that of the huntsmen in Lord Thomas’ forest. To Bridget’s severe disapproval, Kit climbed the trees in the forest and sometimes lay across the branches high above the lake to watch the reflections of the clouds as they played across the surface of the water.

      Wolf guessed she was asleep. Her back was slumped into his chest, and he’d been supporting her for several miles to keep her from sliding off Janus. Wolf considered how old she might be. Sixteen perhaps? The damnable rags she wore made it impossible to discern whether her figure was that of a child or a woman. Certainly old enough to be married, though why wasn’t she? The situation with Baron Somers and his family was obviously not good for the girl, yet she’d remained at Somerton with her СКАЧАТЬ