Norwyck's Lady. Margo Maguire

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      Chapter Three

      Marguerite had barely pulled the soft chemise over her head when her chamber door had burst open and Lord Norwyck had stormed in.

      She shifted under the covers and pulled the flimsy cloth down over her legs. This way, at least, she did not feel quite so vulnerable.

      “Lady Marguerite, eh?”

      “Eleanor suggested it, since I still cannot remember my own name.”

      “Shall we call you ‘your highness’, or will ‘my lady’ do?”

      “Are you always so caustic, my lord?” she asked haughtily, “or do I have the sole pleasure of evoking your ire?”

      “Liars always have that effect upon me,” he replied, “even beautiful ones.”

      Marguerite wished she could see his features clearly. She could only tell that he was tall and broad shouldered, and his hair was dark. His voice was deep and resonant, his accent pleasant, and there was a softness to his tone when he spoke to his sisters.

      ’Twas distinctly harsh when he spoke to her.

      A bright flash of light from within seared her eyes. Closing them tightly, she flinched with the pain. Nausea roiled in her belly and she swallowed repeatedly, unwilling to embarrass herself before Lord Norwyck.

      “God’s bones, woman,” he said, plucking a bowl from the table near her bed, “haven’t you got the sense to seek a basin when you—”

      She turned and retched into it, barely conscious of his hand upon her shoulder, gently pulling her over. She did not think it possible to feel any worse, and still live.

      She fell back and suppressed a groan. Suddenly, a cool cloth was upon her lips, then soothing her brow. Tears seeped from her eyes.

      He remained silent, and if not for his touch, Marguerite would not have known he was there. She did not want to feel any comfort from this stern, unyielding man, yet the warmth of his hand on her chilled flesh sent shivers through her. Mayhap he was not as grim as he wanted her to think.

      “I’ll send a maid up to sit with you,” Lord Norwyck said. His voice was devoid of emotion, and Marguerite was glad she had shown none, either. She was sure those tears had only been the result of her violent retching, not because of the fear or helplessness she felt. She did not really need his presence or any reassurance from him to know she would survive.

      When she heard his footsteps retreating, and the sound of the chamber door closing, Marguerite nearly convinced herself she felt relieved.

      Weary after the long night of battle and chase, Bartholomew left Marguerite in the tower and returned to the great hall.

      ’Twas insanity to allow her appearance of vulnerability to affect him. She was just a woman, clearly a deceitful one at that. Bart knew all about falling for a dishonest woman. ’Twas not something that would ever happen again.

      He crossed the hall and made his way to the study, a warm and cheerful chamber at the southeast corner of the hall.

      “My lord.” Sir Walter Gray stood as Bartholomew entered the room.

      “Don’t get up, Sir Walter.” The white-haired knight was as weary as any of the men who’d fought all night.

      Walter had lived at Norwyck more than thirty years, serving as steward for Bartholomew’s father. He was something of a revered uncle to the Holton sons, and had helped to manage estate matters after their father’s death, while Will and Bart were fighting in Scotland. Sir Walter was Bartholomew’s most trusted advisor. “The last of the men have returned from their northern foray.”

      “Any luck cornering Lachann or his son?” Bart asked as he dropped into a chair across from the older man.

      The old knight shook his head. “They gave chase all the way to Armstrong land, but were rebuffed by archers when they approached the keep.”

      “Did we lose any men?”

      “Not this time.”

      “There must be some way to take Braemar Keep along with the Armstrong and his bastard son.”

      “If there is, we have yet to find it,” Walter said. “’Tis always well guarded by the best Scottish archers.”

      Bart made a rude sound.

      “There is naught more to do today, my lord. Why don’t you seek your bed now, and rest? Armstrong is not so much a fool as to attack two nights running.”

      “You wouldn’t think so,” Bart said as he got to his feet. “But his methods have been unconventional these last few years.”