Halloween Knight. Tori Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ “Is the property entailed or claimed by creditors? I do not intend to incur any debts if I take your sister to wife.”

      For the first time, Mortimer looked uncomfortable. He drummed the tabletop with his fingers as if he played an imaginary virginal. “No creditors have a claim to it, but…”

      Mark lifted one brow. “The estate is not yours?”

      The man turned a mottled reddish color. “I am the legal guardian of Bodiam and can assure you that what I offer will be yours free and clear.”

      Now we arrive at the meat of this poxy feast. Mark skewered his host with a penetrating look. “Exactly who owns this fair castle?” he asked softly. Let us see how close he cuts to the bone of truth.

      Mortimer released a deep mournful sigh. “Tis a sad tale, my lord.”

      “Tell me,” Mark prodded. “I enjoy a story well-told.” How clever a liar are you?

      Mortimer affected to look somber. “Griselda and I had a brother named Cuthbert. A sweet lad but often sickly. Two years ago, he married into the Cavendish family. Have you heard of them?”

      Mark nodded. “Aye, they are a right noble clan from the north. Most fortunate for your brother.”

      Mortimer curled his lip in a sneer. “Only half right. The chit in question is a Cavendish bastard. Twas she who was fortunate to find any decent husband at all.”

      Mark clenched his fists under the cover of his sleeves. How dare this churl speak of Belle as if she were nothing but a tavern strumpet! He longed to leap over the table and throttle Mortimer. “And so?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

      Mortimer did not notice the fire in Mark’s eyes for he warmed to his sniveling tale. “My father warned Cuthbert that he would drag down the family’s good name with this union, but the boy was besotted with the wench and would not listen to common sense. They married. A year later…” Mortimer lowered his voice. “He fell ill of a strange fever. Griselda and I rushed to his side, but…he died.”

      Mark fought the urge to make the sign of the cross that had formerly been a habit when one spoke of the dead. Ever since Great Harry had broken with the Church in Rome all such popish displays of piety were forbidden. Instead, he murmured, “God bless his soul.”

      “Amen,” Mortimer answered, then hurried on. “Between you and I, methinks she killed my poor brother.”

      Anger throbbed in Mark’s brain. You will surely sup in hell! “Tell me more,” he growled. Dig your grave a little deeper.

      “Aye!” Looking satisfied, Mortimer sat back in his chair. “You would only have to see her to know how cruel and cunning she is.”

      “Then show her to me,” whispered Mark. “I have never gazed upon a murderess before.”

      Mortimer gulped then shook his head. “Alas, I cannot. Since her husband’s untimely death, she has been taken ill herself. No doubt her great sin weighs her down with righteous guilt. Trust me. I have her—and her estate—in my safekeeping.”

      “How safe?” Mark snapped. Safekeeping indeed! The knave was more two-faced than Janus.

      Mortimer surprised him by suddenly laughing. “Ah ha! I knew you to be a rogue the instant I clapped my eye on you!”

      These words and Mortimer’s sudden levity made Mark uneasy. “Are you a conjurer who knows the secrets of men’s hearts?” he asked lightly.

      “Nay, take no offense, friend. I am no wizard. We two are alike in our thoughts, and so I know yours as well as my own.”

      Bile rose in Mark’s throat. Be thankful you do not read my mind this very instant. “And what thoughts of mine are the twins of yours?”

      Leaning across the table, Mortimer whispered, “To see the Cavendish wench dead and these estates back in the hands of upright men such as ourselves.”

      Mark’s breath caught in his throat. An icy chill ran down his spine. This devil couldn’t mean he would kill sweet Belle! “Is she near death?” he forced himself to ask.

      Mortimer chuckled. The sound was far from mirthful. “Who knows?”

      God shield us, Belle! I hope you have thought of a clever plan or else we’ll both be crow’s meat ere the week is out.

      Mark fiddled through the onerous dinner with little appetite. On the other hand, Mortimer and his vile sister enjoyed the various courses with gluttonous delight. Griselda’s table manners alone were enough to turn Mark’s stomach, while thoughts of poor Belle starving in a cold garret tore his heart. Tonight he would bring her a real feast—and hopefully talk some sense into that pretty head of hers. As soon as the last of the stewed apples had been removed, Mark rose from his seat. Griselda clamped herself to his side.

      “Would you care to hear me sing, my lord?” She giggled. “Or do you have other pleasures in mind to while away such a gloomy afternoon?”

      She is bold as burnished brass and terrifying as a witch met at the crossroads. After years of pursuing the weaker sex, Mark discovered that he did not enjoy the role of the prey. Alas, turnabout is fair play. “I fear I am prone to headaches when confined indoors.”

      Her claws reached for him. “Then I will soothe your brow.”

      He ducked away from her. “Nay, saucy puddleduck. My thanks for your concern but a ride in the fresh air will clear my malady.”

      Griselda glanced at the arched window that dominated the hall. Wind-driven rain lashed at the glass panes. “Tis near to drowning out there, my lord. You will catch your death in this weather.”

      Tis far safer in the midst of the storm than inside this charnel house. He pried her hands from his arm. “Bertrum!” he shouted down the length of the hall. “Quit lollygagging! Saddle our horses at once!”

      Kitt’s blue eyes widened. “Now, my lord?” he ventured.

      Mark sidestepped another one of Griselda’s amorous attacks. “This instant or twill be your hide nailed to the door!”

      Kitt muttered something under his breath as he scuttled down the wide stairway toward the courtyard. Mark all but ran after him.

      Within the half-hour, the two were riding through the familiar woods that surrounded Bodiam Castle. Though the rain pelted his face and chilled him through his sodden cloak, Mark felt alive and free for the first time in twenty-four hours. If it was not for that hard-headed minx in the northwest tower, he would keep riding all the way to London.

      Thinking of Belle curbed his enjoyment. She hated confinement. Mark recalled the time years ago when she had been locked in the buttery for some household transgression. She had screamed and kicked the stout door for several soul-wrenching hours. When Kat finally released her, she was horrified by the sight of Belle’s bleeding hands and feet, but the child had not shed one tear of pain or remorse. With her head held high, she limped up the stairway to her secret refuge in the dovecote. There she had stayed until long past nightfall. Afterward, no one ever mentioned the incident, nor had Belle ever again been confined against her will—until now. Like an exotic wild bird, she wasted away inside the cold damp walls of her cage, yet she refused the freedom he offered СКАЧАТЬ