Scoundrel of Dunborough Read online

  “This is Daisy, your sister’s horse,” he said matter-of-factly when she joined him and as if nothing of any import had just happened. He patted the neck of the saddle horse standing placidly beside Gerrard’s prancing white beast. “I thought you would like her best.”

  Daisy appeared gentle enough, especially compared to Gerrard’s horse, yet Celeste had rarely ridden. Those few times she had didn’t instill a feeling of confidence in her now. Nevertheless, mount and ride Daisy she must.

  “Do you need help?”

  “Yes, I do,” she replied, even though that meant Gerrard would have to touch her. She was discovering that any time she touched him, or he touched her, her heart began to race and something surely sinful began to unfurl within her. She must control her wanton feelings, for she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get into the saddle without his assistance.

  Fortunately, he didn’t actually touch her. He stood beside the mare and clasped his hands together to make a step for her. Then, as she gripped the saddle board, he hoisted her into the air. She learned it wasn’t a simple matter to get her leg over the back of the horse.

  Nevertheless, she did it and, once seated, drew in a deep, tremulous breath.

  “I take it you haven’t done much riding,” he said, stroking the mare’s neck. Again, she could tell nothing of what he was really thinking, much to her dismay. “Have no fear. Daisy is a very quiet, calm horse.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” she replied, trying to sound and appear just as calm and composed as he. “Shall we?”

  She lifted the reins and as Daisy started forward at a walk, Gerrard mounted his stallion and came to ride beside her.

  The last time she’d been on this road, she’d been going to Dunborough and sitting in the back of a cart belonging to a farmer. Certain features of the landscape had been familiar—the low rise to her right, the forest of pine to her left, the scent rich in the air, the little brook nearby and the path that led to it. She’d been anxious and cold, but more upset about Audrey’s death and wondering what she would find at Dunborough than concerned about her own comfort.

  In spite of herself she’d also been thinking about Gerrard. If he was still there. If he was the generous, kindhearted, merry fellow she remembered, or the lascivious, selfish scoundrel Esmerelda had denounced. And if he was as good-looking as she recalled.

  Celeste glanced at the man riding beside her. If anything, he was better looking than she’d imagined. Nor could she help noticing how his hips moved forward and back with his horse’s motion, the rocking movements bringing other worldly things to mind.

  That they should not.

  Had she not just witnessed an example of the kind of distress an angry man could cause? It would be better to be in a convent than subjected to a man’s rule.

  They both knew what it was like to have a cruel parent. She at least had had Audrey, and he had had Roland, even if the brothers quarreled. Lewis had no one. “It’s kind of you to give Lewis a place in your household.”

  This time when Gerrard answered, she could tell he was still angry. “I have no love for men who beat their sons, and Norbert’s an ugly little squint.”

  Celeste considered telling Gerrard what she’d learned about Norbert’s opinion of Audrey, then decided against it. She didn’t want to rouse Gerrard’s temper any more today. “Still, it was generous of you, and I will thank you.”

  “I’m not so generous as you seem to think. I need a clerk.”

  “Be that as it may, you saved him.” As perhaps they’d both wished for a protector when they were little. “I’m sure he’s truly grateful, as am I.”

  That brought a brief smile to Gerrard’s face. “Then I’m even more glad that I did it.”

  She, too, smiled, feeling more at ease in his company. Too much at ease, perhaps, when she recalled the reason for their journey. She shouldn’t be lighthearted when they were going to seek answers about her sister’s death.

  “Do you ever miss those days when we were children?” he abruptly asked.

  “Sometimes,” she confessed, wondering if Gerrard was also remembering playing in these woods. She and Audrey had often sought refuge here, and she had enjoyed it even more when Gerrard joined them. “I miss Audrey very much. I suppose you might think that strange, when I’ve been away for so many years, but as long as I could think of her here, I didn’t feel so alone.”

  He nodded and looked thoughtful. “Even when I believed I hated Roland, I would have mourned him deeply if anything had happened to him.”

  “You are truly friends now?”

  “More friend than foe,” he replied, “or he wouldn’t have named me garrison commander or offered me—”

  She wondered why he’d stopped so abruptly until he turned to her and said, “He’s offered me Dunborough.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Celeste was so taken aback, she pulled too hard on the reins, making Daisy whinny.

  “Careful, there!” Gerrard cautioned, reaching out to hold the mare’s bridle. “Daisy’s gentle, but she can be skittish.”

  Celeste was glad for his controlling hand. She had come near to falling, both with surprise and the action of the mare.

  “Did I hear you aright?” she asked. “Roland has offered you Dunborough?”

  Gerrard nodded. “Yes. He has the estate of DeLac, thanks to his wife, so he’s willing to give me Dunborough. The king will have to approve, but Roland thinks John will be only too eager to ensure that my brother has less land and power.”

  From what she’d heard about the king, she found that easier to believe than that Roland would willingly give up his right to their family’s estate.

  Gerrard regarded her with grave solemnity. “It’s quite true, I assure you.”

  Finally she believed him, and joy replaced her doubt. “So you will have your heart’s desire at last, Gerrard! I’m happy for you.”

  “I haven’t yet decided whether I’ll accept Roland’s offer or not.”

  She reined in again and, when he likewise halted Snow, regarded him with incredulity. “Why not?”

  “It would mean being beholden to my brother for the rest of my life.”

  “Your pride stands in the way?”

  His expression hardened once again. “My pride, as you call it, is one of the few things I have I can call my own.”

  “But... Dunborough, Gerrard!”

  “Yes, Dunborough,” he muttered, urging his horse forward again. “And all that goes with it.”

  They rode past a few more trees and large stones and paths leading from the road that she recognized. The pine trees ended and soon the moor would stretch out before them.

  “I take it, then, you won’t quarrel with your brother anymore,” she ventured at last.

  He sighed and then, to her surprise, he chuckled, a low, deep, soft sound as attractive as his voice. “I expect we’ll always quarrel about something. Goading Roland is the only way to get him to speak his mind. Otherwise, he’s like a statue, as you may recall.”

  She did remember Roland’s reticence, and Gerrard’s answer would explain a great many of their quarrels. Nevertheless... “Surely there’s another way to get him to express his opinion.”

  “If there is another way to make him reveal what he’s truly thinking, I have yet to find it.”

  “You will one day, I’m sure of it.”

  “You sound as if you care.”

  “I do. I want you—and Roland—to be happy and live in peace with one another.”

  He slid her a sidelong glance. “Roland is very happy. His wife has made him so.”

  “Then perhaps when you are wed...”

  She fell silent and stared straight ahead. She didn’t want to think of Gerrard married, with a wife to love.

  “I
’ll be happy?” he finished for her. “As happy as you’ll be in the convent?”

  “I shall be very happy there,” she said firmly.

  Because she would, once the mother superior was gone, she told herself.

  Nevertheless, a change of subject seemed in order. “Is it much farther to Martha’s?”

  “Just around the next bend.”

  They rode in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts, until they came upon a fenced yard with a wide gate surrounding a small, squat stone cottage with a slate roof. A bench was by the door and a few chickens scratched in the dirt near a small coop.

  “This is the place,” Gerrard said. Frowning, he hesitated a moment, then added, “I should warn you that Martha tends to get rather overwrought.”

  “Perhaps, then, it would be best if I spoke to her alone,” Celeste suggested.

  Gerrard’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure that would be wise. She can also get quite...fierce.”

  “You think she might try to hurt me?” Celeste asked, her eyes widening.

  “Who can say what a woman in that state will do?” he mused with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

  “Very well,” Celeste replied, nodding. “We’ll speak to her together.”

  Gerrard dismounted and looped Snow’s reins over the gatepost.

  Celeste stayed where she was. The last time she’d ridden a horse, she’d been a child, and her father had lifted her to the ground.

  Gerrard regarded her questioningly. “Have you changed your mind?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure how to get down.”

  If Gerrard found that amusing, he mercifully didn’t show it. He simply said, “Put your hands on my shoulders and lean toward me as far as you can.”

  She did and he reached up and grabbed her around the waist. “Now slide off. I’ll make sure you land safely.”

  He held her up as she slipped from the saddle toward him and set her feet upon the ground.

  He must be even stronger than she’d suspected.

  Her hands were still on his shoulders; his were still around her waist. They were close enough to kiss.

  She wanted to kiss him. He looked as if he wanted to kiss her but was awaiting her permission.

  “Celeste, I—” he began, his voice soft, almost pleading.

  “Gerrard,” she whispered. “Please...please don’t.”

  If he kissed her again, she would not be able to resist. And then what? He had asked and promised her nothing.

  He stepped back abruptly, his face as red as hers must be if the heat of shame within her was anything to go by.

  He opened the gate without so much as a glance at her and immediately a huge and shaggy black dog came racing around from the back of the cottage, barking loudly, its teeth bared as if about to attack.

  With a gasp Celeste moved behind Gerrard, who drew his sword.

  An elderly man in an old, much-mended woolen tunic and breeches, his boots equally ancient, appeared at the door of the cottage. “Down, Blackie!” he cried, and at once the dog stopped barking and sat on its haunches. “Beg pardon, sir. He’s a trifle excitable, is Blackie.”

  “A quality to be desired in a dog who guards your household,” Gerrard replied, sheathing his sword. The grim soldier was back, the yearning lover gone, perhaps forever.

  As he must be, Celeste thought as they crossed the yard, Celeste on the side of Gerrard farthest from the dog.

  “This is Audrey D’Orleau’s sis—” Gerrard began.

  “Why, it’s wee Celeste, isn’t it?” the old man interrupted with a wide, toothless smile. “Don’t you remember me?”

  Of course! He was one of her father’s carters who took goods back and forth between Dunborough, York and London. He’d always had some little treat for her when he returned.

  “Oh, Jack, it’s good to see you!” she cried, hurrying to press a kiss upon his wrinkled cheek.

  Audrey’s maidservant must be his daughter. Celeste remembered Martha now, a timid, rather plain young woman.

  “We’d like to speak to Martha, if we may,” Gerrard said from behind her.

  Jack rubbed his whiskered chin. “Well, I dunno. This isn’t one of her better days.”

  “We’ll try not to upset her,” Celeste said.

  “And Celeste—Sister Augustine now—has to return to the convent soon.”

  Gerrard was right, of course, and yet she wished he hadn’t said it.

  “Very well, then, come in,” Jack said, stepping aside to make way for them to enter the dimly lit, one-room cottage.

  It was neat and relatively tidy, but their eyes were immediately drawn to the woman hunched over on a stool near the glowing embers in the hearth. Her brown hair was disheveled, her gown loose but clean. Her cheeks were gaunt, too, as if she rarely ate. It was not poverty that was responsible for that state, Celeste realized, for her father was well fed, and there was smoked ham and baskets of beans in the cottage.

  “Look here, Martha!” Jack cried with somewhat forced good cheer. “Here’s Celeste come to see you all the way from Saint Agatha’s. You remember Celeste.”

  Martha raised her head, a look of happy surprise on her face, until she saw Gerrard. She jumped up, oversetting the stool, and pressed back against the wall as if she’d seen a ghost.

  “I think, um, you’d better wait outside, sir,” Jack said under his breath.

  Gerrard’s visage was so stern and unyielding, Celeste feared he was about to protest.

  “Please wait outside, Gerrard,” she ordered with quiet, but firm, command. Martha was obviously afraid of him, and they’d get no answers from her in that state.

  Although he looked far from pleased, Gerrard left the cottage.

  “Now then, Martha, it’s all right,” Jack said, speaking as he would to a nervous horse. “Sit ye down by the fire again. Celeste wants a few words with you, that’s all.”

  He took his daughter’s hand and led her back to the stool, where she sat obediently, as if she were a child.

  “I’m sorry if we’ve upset you,” Celeste said, keeping her voice low and soothing, remembering how Sister Sylvester had spoken to the girls who’d arrived at the convent in obvious distress “If you like, I could come back another day.”

  “He said—” Jack began.

  She shook her head to silence him. “I have plenty of time.”

  She knelt beside Martha. “I want to talk to you about my sister. I’ve been away so long, you see.”

  She wouldn’t broach the subject of Audrey’s murder, at least not right away.

  Yet that was clearly what was uppermost in Martha’s mind as she sat lacing and unlacing her thin, work-worn fingers clasped in her lap. “I knew he wasn’t right in the head,” she muttered. “I could tell by the way he looked at her. Like a dog begging for a bone.”

  She leaned forward and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God help me! There was so much blood! He’d...he’d...”

  Celeste put her arms around the distraught woman. Gerrard was right. She shouldn’t have come here. Poor Martha was too distressed to answer any questions. “Never mind what he did, what you saw. It’s over now, and he’s gone forever.”

  The woman reared back and stared at her. “Is he? Do you think so?” she cried, getting more and more upset. “Or are they just sayin’ that? Drowned, they said. Dead in the river. Fell in, said some. Killed himself, said others. Maybe somebody pushed him. How do we know? How can his soul be at rest? What if his spirit comes back?” She jumped up and peered out the window. “What if he comes looking for me?”

  Jack hurried to pour some wine in a cup. “Here, Martha, take this,” he said, putting it to her lips.

  She drank as if she’d been lost in the desert for days.

  Jack
gave Celeste a woeful look over his daughter’s shoulder, as if he realized this wasn’t the best way to calm her, yet it was the best one he had.

  Celeste was sure Sister Sylvester would have some better medicine, and when—if—she returned to Saint Agatha’s, she would ask her to send some here.

  “Come, Martha, why don’t you lie down like a good girl,” her father suggested.

  “I’ll leave you in peace,” Celeste said, moving toward the door.

  “No!” Martha declared, pushing her father out of the way. “I want you to know, in case...in case I die! Duncan wanted your sister and she never saw it. Never wanted to see it, because she was after richer men, like that Broderick and that Roland and even that Gerrard. But Gerrard never would have married her. He really wanted his brother’s wife, same as he wanted everything else Roland had.”

  Celeste gasped and lifted her hand to her cheek as if the woman had punched her.

  Because Martha was right. Gerrard had always wanted everything Roland had and usually found a way to either get it or take it. Why should he not have felt the same about a woman?

  She wanted to believe that he’d changed, but maybe she was wrong. Perhaps she’d let her own lust and desire cloud her judgment, as other women had before her.

  “So much greed! So much evil!” Martha moaned. “She was a whore, your sister, and she died like one!”

  “It’s all right, Martha,” her father murmured as he put his arm around his daughter. “Best you go lie down.”

  When he looked up again, Celeste was gone.

  * * *

  As Gerrard watched Celeste approach with quick strides, her cloak flaring out behind her and her face pale, he regretted bringing her here. He should have refused. He should have told her Martha was too upset by what had happened to make much sense, or that she had gone away.

  And he should never touch Celeste, or even get too close to her. She was simply too tempting, too desirable. Even if she seemed to want him at times, if he took advantage of those moments, he would surely be damned forever, a creature of lust and depravity like his father.