A Midsummer Knight's Kiss. Elisabeth Hobbes

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      Roger reached out a hand, which Robbie ignored, his heart tearing. The father who had soothed Robbie when he fell, played with him and taught him did nothing to ease the grief and confusion beyond offer a hand.

      ‘You were too young to understand before and we couldn’t risk you revealing it. There were reputations to consider. But you are almost a man and should know the truth about yourself.’

      Robbie balled his hands. Roger’s reputation was the least of his considerations when his world had been shattered. He flung himself from the stool, sending it crashing to the floor. He winced at the noise. The wine made his head spin, adding to the fug of emotions that surged inside him.

      ‘Sit down and be sensible,’ Roger said.

      Robbie glared, bristling at the command in Roger’s voice, and stood his ground.

      ‘Is Sir John my father?’

      Roger shook his head.

      ‘Who is?’

      ‘That doesn’t matter.’

      ‘It matters to me!’

      ‘It is not my place to tell you.’ Roger looked away. ‘This changes nothing. I have no son of my own.’

      Robbie glanced at the closed door to his mother’s room. Acid filled his throat. If the new baby had been a son, Robbie would have been an outcast by now.

      ‘You’re my only heir. Titles can pass to adopted sons if there is no legitimate heir.’

      Roger smiled, as if this negated years of deceit. Robbie had often marvelled at the way his father—no, his stepfather—swept through life with a carefree manner as if nothing had consequence. Did Roger not understand how completely he had destroyed everything Robbie had believed to be true?

      ‘But you haven’t adopted me. You’ve kept it secret.’ Robbie began to shake.

      ‘William of Pickering believes only true bloodlines matter. His son, Horace, might see differently when he becomes the Earl, but it is too much of a risk to reveal the truth. Secrecy is better. For now, at least,’ Roger said.

      ‘Lies are better, you mean?’ Robbie exclaimed. ‘What if I reject your plan and refuse to be your heir?’

      ‘Then Wharram could pass to a stranger when I die. Everything my family has created will be lost.’ Roger eyed him sharply. ‘Would you do that?’

      The portion of land owned by the Danbys, including Rowenna’s village of Ravenscrag, was held in fief from the tenant-in-chief, William of Pickering. Whether or not Robbie cared if the manor passed to another of William’s vassals—and at this point he was not sure he did—there were tenants who relied on the Danbys. Another nobleman who was unfamiliar with the area might be less generous and fair with the serfs and peasants. Robbie couldn’t be responsible for jeopardising so many lives. He shook his head.

      ‘Does anyone else know?’ he asked.

      ‘Hal and Joanna, and my parents.’

      Which was why Lady Stick had no liking for Robbie. He was not her blood any more than Rowenna was.

      ‘Your reputation is safe,’ he said stiffly. ‘I shall tell no one and I shall be your heir. I’ll leave for Wentbrig at first light.’

      ‘There’s no need for that.’

      Roger looked distraught. He raked his fingers through his hair, a gesture that Robbie had unconsciously adopted. Robbie stared at the man, who he resembled so closely in manner and looks. No wonder the deception had been so easy.

      ‘There’s every need. You’ve done your duty and found me a position. I shall take it.’

      He had promised to see Rowenna. Though he would break his word, how could he face her knowing what he did now, but unable to share his burden? He did not know what the future held, but it was not in Wharram.

      He bowed curtly. ‘Please tell my mother I am sorry not to see her. Farewell, Sir Roger.’

      He left the room before he cried.

       Chapter Two

      June 1381

      Her name was Mary Scarbrick and he loved her more than life itself. Robbie Danby knew with absolute certainty she was the woman he wanted to marry. She had hair so blond it was almost white and eyes the colour of his mother’s sapphire rings. True, he had only known her a month, but it had been a month filled with the greatest passions and despair he had ever experienced.

      Riding towards York in the retinue of his master, Sir John Wallingdon, Robbie passed the time in two ways: he searched as he always did for a hint of the father whose unknown identity plagued him whenever he was in the presence of noblemen and knights, and he dreamed of Mary. There was plenty of time to do both as the procession of entourages all converging on the road to the city stretched seemingly for miles and was making slow progress.

      Mary was among them somewhere, though Robbie had lost track of which covered litter she was travelling in. The ladies seemed to move from one to another as they kept each other company. As lady-in-waiting to Lady Isobel, Sir John Wallingdon’s wife, Mary would follow her mistress wherever that woman desired her to go.

      Robbie sighed, thinking of the curve of Mary’s lips, the tilt of her nose, the smooth whiteness of her cheeks. No woman in the country could come close to her perfection. He would do great deeds in her honour. He would write poetry that would cause the hardest heart to weep. He would dedicate his life to her happiness if she would let him.

      All he had to do was be able to speak to her without his throat seizing and his tongue becoming lead.

      As a squire in the service of an elderly knight of middling wealth he had little to recommend him, but one day Robbie would be a knight, Sir Robert. With the expectation of one day inheriting the title of Lord Danby, Baron of Danby and Westerdale, he would be a much more attractive prospect to a young woman.

      His stomach squirmed as it always did whenever the matter of inheritance occurred to him. He had kept The Great Secret buried within him, but never a day went by that he was not conscious of the deception he was party to, simply by living under the name he bore. His conscience would not permit him to deceive a wife over his origins.

      With the prospect of Mary in his future, he was more determined to win his knighthood on his own merit. Robbie pictured himself taking Mary back to Wharram Danby, his childhood home. His mother would naturally love her as much as Robbie did himself. Even old Lady Stick would have to unbend when introduced to someone of such elegance, despite her dislike of Robbie. His twin sisters would fall over themselves to gain her notice while his cousins would look on in envy at the woman Robbie had won.

      Most of his cousins, at least. Robbie slowed his horse a little, dropping back to the middle of the cavalcade as he pondered what his cousin Rowenna would make of his intended bride. He couldn’t imagine the meeting between the elegant Mary and spirited Rowenna, though they were СКАЧАТЬ