Scoundrel of Dunborough Read online

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “I gave you leave from duty.”

  “Well, sir, it’s like this,” Verdan replied, shifting his spear from one hand to the other. “The roster was all made up and one of the lads has a sweetheart in the village and he was plannin’ to see her, and he’d have to take my place, so—”

  “Oh, very well. Spare me your explanation. I, too, am going to the village and I likely won’t be back until morning. And the next time you’re excused from duty, Verdan, stay excused. I won’t make such an offer a third time.”

  “Yes, sir,” the soldier gruffly replied as young Hedley opened the smaller wicket gate.

  After Gerrard had passed through and Hedley closed the gate, Verdan regarded his fellow soldier with dismay. “I didn’t think he’d be cross because I was on duty. And where’s he goin’ this time o’ night? You don’t think he’s goin’ back to his old ways, do ya?”

  “I hope not,” Hedley glumly replied. “Maybe Sister Augustine was trying to talk him into staying in the castle.”

  “What?”

  “He was talking to the nun who came today, there by the tree.”

  “Never!” Verdan exclaimed, although Hedley was famous for his eyesight. He could hit an apple with an arrow from fifty yards.

  “Aye, he was. At least he met her there,” Hedley said. “Then they moved under the tree. I couldn’t see them after that.”

  “Maybe you’re right, and she got wind he was goin’ to the village and tried to put a stop to it. He wouldn’t like that. No wonder he looked so peeved.”

  “Aye,” Hedley agreed, leaning on his spear. “I could have sworn it was Sir Roland standing here.”

  “Reckon there’s anything we ought to do?”

  “Like what? We can’t stop Gerrard if he takes a notion to go to the village at night. He’s the garrison commander. And he might only have said he was going to the village and won’t be back till morning to see if we’re slack on the watch, and he’ll circle round and check again. He’s a clever one, after all, and takes his duties serious.”

  Verdan hitched up his sword belt. “Aye, that’s true enough. Still, we’d best keep our eyes open. I like Gerrard, but our first duty’s to Sir Roland. He’s the lord of Dunborough, and he ought to know if his brother’s a sot or up to no good, no matter how much we hope he ain’t.”

  * * *

  The proprietor of the Cock’s Crow smiled broadly as Gerrard entered the smoky confines of the tavern. “Greetings, Gerrard! It’s been a while since you’ve darkened our door.”

  “A mug of ale,” Gerrard said as he sat at a table in a far corner of the taproom, which smelled not only of smoke from the fire in the hearth, but also ale and beef stew, herb-strewn rushes on the floor and the bodies of hardworking men taking their ease after a day of toil.

  “Aye, sir, aye!” Matheus replied. He hurried to bring it, setting it down and standing back. “Anything else you want?”

  “A bed for the night—and just a bed,” Gerrard added when he saw Matheus’s expression. There had been times a woman had joined him there, but not tonight and not for days. Not since he’d returned from DeLac after Roland had been attacked.

  “Of course, sir! And more ale when that one’s finished?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Ignoring the curious looks from the other customers, Gerrard took a swallow of the excellent ale, then wrapped his hands around the cup. He would have this one drink. It wouldn’t be wise to get drunk, not with Celeste—Sister Augustine—no doubt ready to denounce him for a drunkard as well as a libertine.

  Even though she’d returned his kiss with equal passion, he still felt like the most disgusting reprobate in the kingdom—deservedly so. Only weeks ago he had been what gossip and rumor claimed he was: a rogue and a wastrel, carrying on with no concern for whom he hurt or why, seeking to annoy Roland, assuage his own desires and assert some independence.

  He’d chosen for his friends young men with little to recommend them except their agreement that he deserved to be lord of Dunborough more than his brother.

  Gerrard had paid for his pleasure, cheated at games of sport and toyed with women’s hearts, although he truly hadn’t meant for Esmerelda to get hurt.

  Ever since the attack on Roland, though, he’d kept away from taverns, gambling dens and unwholesome women. He’d busied himself with training the men and the business of the estate, as much as he was able. He’d sought to lead a better, more respectable life and thought he’d been succeeding.

  Until today. Until tonight, when his desire had compelled him to take a nun into his arms.

  Perhaps he truly was his father’s son.

  No, he was not. If his father had wanted Celeste, he would have taken her, no matter what she said or did, and even if she’d fought him tooth and nail.

  Gerrard ran his hand through his hair. God help him, why had he kissed her?

  The first answers came to him in Roland’s censorious voice. Because you wanted to and didn’t care about the consequences. Because she’s pretty and you have a weakness for pretty girls.

  Yet in his heart he knew there was more to it than that. Standing so close to her in the dark, he had felt as he had when they were younger, when he was afraid of his father and brothers and she had regarded him with awe and admiration, as if he could do anything. Be anything.

  And then what had he done? He’d lost his temper over some stupid game, held her down and cut off her lovely, curling hair.

  His feelings had overruled his head tonight, too. Was he never going to be master of himself? Why could he not foresee the consequences of his actions, especially the ones that would cause hurt and pain and anger?

  He would. He must.

  He drained his ale and took himself to bed.

  * * *

  Just past dawn the next morning, Celeste walked across the courtyard toward the gate. The weak November sun did little to warm the air and frost was heavy on the ground, but at least it wasn’t snowing.

  Mercifully, and perhaps in answer to her prayers, Gerrard hadn’t been in the hall this morning, nor had any of the servants acted as if there had been any talk of improper behavior on her part.

  For a long time last night she’d prayed for forgiveness for her lust, and the strength to resist the temptation Gerrard embodied. In future, she vowed, she’d have as little to do with him as possible. If Roland returned soon, she might never have to speak to Gerrard again.

  Which was what she wanted, just as she needed...wanted...to be safe and secure in the religious life.

  Nevertheless, and despite what had happened between them, she couldn’t help wishing that the tales told about Gerrard weren’t true. That he wasn’t a drunkard and lust-filled libertine. That he was a better man than his father and older brother, and more like the hero of a ballad than the wastrel gossip and rumor said he was.

  That she was right to still have hope that Esmerelda had unjustly blamed him for what had happened to her. Even if she never saw him again, she wanted to think of him as a good man.

  As Celeste got closer to the gate, she couldn’t be sure if the guards were the same men who’d been on duty last night. In case they were and had seen that shameful embrace, she would do her very best imitation of the always serene Sister Sylvester. That way they might have doubts about who had been with Gerrard under the tree.

  “Good day,” she said with a pleasant smile when she reached them. “Please open the gate.”

  The two men exchanged wary glances.

  “Is there some reason you should not?” she sweetly inquired.

  “Not at all, Sister,” the older, bearded one replied, moving to open the wicket gate for her.

  With a nod of thanks she lifted her skirts to pass over the threshold—and nearly bumped into Gerrard.

/>   He fell back a step and his surprise soon gave way to that slightly mocking grin. “Where might you be going this fine morning, Sister Augustine?”

  He didn’t look the worse for drink, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t. She had learned from her father that a man could be far from sober and still look it.

  Perhaps he’d been in his cups last night when he’d kissed her. She hadn’t considered that.

  Even if he had been, that didn’t excuse him. Indeed, if anything, it magnified his offense.

  “Since I am a guest, I don’t believe I need answer that question,” she replied.

  “No, you don’t,” he agreed with exaggerated courtesy as he stepped aside. “After you, Sister.”

  “Good day, Gerrard,” she replied, walking briskly past him. She did not look back to see what, if anything, he did as she continued toward the village and her family’s home.

  She passed a group of old men gathered by the smithy and several servants already gossiping by the well. More than one gave her a quizzical look, and one of the women immediately covered her mouth and turned aside to whisper to another. About her? About Audrey? About their father and his mistreatment of their mother, or had those tales of quarrels, harsh words and bruises been forgotten long ago?

  As Celeste quickened her pace, a youth of about sixteen, with sandy hair and a pockmarked face, paused while removing the shutters of a shop. He gave her a shy smile and nodded a hello, reminding her that not everyone in Dunborough was regarding her with curiosity.

  A baby cried from within a nearby house and a woman began a lullaby, soft and low and tender. Again she felt that yearning ache, and she pictured herself by a glowing hearth with a dark-haired baby at her breast.

  But the image quickly faded, for she had already decided what her fate would be.

  Reaching the house, she slipped the key into the sturdy lock, silently blessing Audrey for making sure she had a key, and for telling her to hide it. Otherwise, she would have turned it over to the mother superior, who would surely have taken as long to “find” it as she had to send word to Ireland that Celeste should return to the convent. There was news of her family, the message had said, giving no hint of what Celeste was going to hear when she arrived back from her pilgrimage, which had been more of an exile.

  Celeste pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the empty house. As she had told Gerrard, she didn’t fear ghosts, but there were unwelcome memories and, worst of all, no Audrey there to greet her and remind her of the few happy times they’d shared.

  She hurried past the main chamber with that horrible stain, trying not to envision what had happened there or imagine a man capable of such jealous rage that he could brutally attack a woman he claimed to love.

  In the kitchen at the back of the house, a pot with a ladle still in it hung over the cold ashes in the hearth. A basket of laundry, wrinkled and musty, lay on its side beside the worktable, its contents spilled onto the floor. There were spoons and a wooden bowl in the stone sink. The room looked as if it had been suddenly, abruptly abandoned, as it probably had.

  She went to the larder, noting that the door stood slightly open. That was not so surprising if the servants had fled quickly. Inside, a few mice had been at work, tearing open a sack of lentils and another of peas to get at the contents, although the destruction was less than might have been expected. Fortunately, there were plenty of other stores that were untouched, enough to last her for several days.

  Her eyes narrowed as she ventured farther into the storeroom. The contents on the shelves were as neat and tidy as Audrey would have wanted, but there was only the slightest coating of dust on the shelves. To be sure, the nearly closed door might explain that, but perhaps somebody else had been there looking for—

  Two eyes gleamed in the dark.

  She gave a little shriek and jumped back, her heart racing until she realized it was a cat. A big orange cat. The animal studied her solemnly, then jumped down and walked out of the larder, bushy tail swishing, as if this was his house and she an unwelcome intruder.

  His presence likely explained the lack of dust, given the size of his tail.

  “Have you been keeping the mice at bay, too?” she asked, reaching down to stroke it.

  The cat ran under the worktable, then crouched and stared at her again.

  “Very well, I’ll leave you alone,” she said, before she went to the servants’ stairs that led up to the second floor, where the bedchambers were.

  She peered into the one she had shared with Audrey. The shutters were closed and the room dim. Nevertheless, she could see well enough to tell that the two cots were still there, albeit without any bedding. Otherwise, the space was empty.

  Audrey must have taken her parents’ bedchamber for her own.

  It, too, was dark, the shutters closed. Celeste could make out the bed, though, and the shape of other furnishings. She felt the softness of a carpet beneath her feet as she went to the window and opened both the cloth and wooden shutters. Cold air streamed into the room, as well as light, so she hurried to close the cloth shutters over the opening before she turned back.

  Yes, the bed was the same; the opulent silken hangings and bedding, however, were not. A large and colorful tapestry depicting a colorful garden hung on the wall opposite. A bronze brazier with a full bowl of coal stood near the dressing table.

  She spotted a flint and steel on the table and, taking some straw from the mattress beneath the feather bed, kindled a fire. Grateful for the warmth, she also lit what was left of a candle on the dressing table, noting the fine sandalwood combs, the carved box of hairpins, the brush and, most expensive of all, a mirror.

  She couldn’t resist looking at her reflection, so she did—and gasped. Why, she looked like Audrey! Although God didn’t care what she looked like, and neither should she, Celeste couldn’t subdue a little thrill to discover that she resembled the sister everyone called a beauty more than she remembered.

  Trying to dismiss such vain thoughts, she began to examine the contents of the largest wooden chest. It was full of clothes—costly gowns and fine linen shifts, silken stockings, veils and beaded caps. These things must have cost a great deal of money...

  Audrey must have found their father’s treasure! How else would she have been able to afford all these clothes and run the household, too?

  How much was left and where was it? There had to be a considerable amount still. Many times their father had bragged to their mother that he was rich as Croesus and if she left him, she would never see a penny of his wealth.

  Rummaging again in the chest, Celeste found a carved wooden box and opened it to find a host of jewelry—rings and necklaces, as well as broaches and pins that glittered red and green and blue and white among their golden settings.

  Trembling with excitement, she took the box to the window, setting it on the sill. The value of these things would surely be enough to bribe...encourage...the bishop to send the mother superior away from Saint Agatha’s, perhaps even to the far reaches of Scotland.

  Celeste drew out a ruby necklace and held it up to the window to examine it closely.

  Her stomach knotted.

  The one lesson their father had purposefully taught them was how to tell the difference between real gems and fake, “so you won’t be cheated by charlatans, even if you’re only women and all women are mostly fools.”

  The rubies were paste and a swift examination proved the other jewels were false, too, as well as the gold that bound them.

  These couldn’t be part of the wealth her father had hidden.

  Another moment’s reflection gave her some relief. Of course Audrey wouldn’t keep real jewels in so obvious a hiding place, even if she had a fierce Scot to guard the house. Any thief who managed to get in and overpower him would look in the chests. Audrey must have found a better hiding spo
t.

  A loud series of knocks rattled the door at the front of the house.

  She went to the window and opened the cloth shutters to look into the yard, trying to see who it might be. Unfortunately, she couldn’t. However, there was no white horse or group of soldiers outside her gates, so it couldn’t be Gerrard, not that there was any reason for him to come here. As for anyone else, she was in no mood to entertain inquisitive visitors.

  Perhaps if she stayed upstairs and didn’t answer, whoever it was would go away.

  The knocking commenced again, just as loud and persistent. If it was Gerrard, he was stubborn enough to knock for a very long time, especially if he was sure she was there.

  Her lips pursed, Celeste adjusted her veil and wimple and went to deal with whoever was pounding so insistently on her door.

  Chapter Five

  It was not Gerrard. A thin man wearing a dark brown cloak over a fawn-colored tunic cinched with a tooled leather belt stood on the threshold. There was something about his narrow face, pale blue eyes and long nose that nudged the edge of her memory, but she couldn’t come up with a name.

  “Good day, Celeste! Or I suppose I should say, Sister! Welcome back to Dunborough.” A sorrowful frown came to the man’s homely face. “Although naturally we’re all upset at the reason why. Your dear sister will be much missed.”

  His name came to her. “Norbert, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed, indeed!” he cried with delight. “To think that you remember me!”

  He wouldn’t have been so pleased if he knew that she remembered him as a skinny young man several years older than Roland and Gerrard, a nasty fellow Audrey called “Nosy Norbert.” Since he was the first of the villagers to come to call, she suspected that name would still apply.

  “How delightful to have you back home in Dunborough!” he exclaimed as he stepped over the threshold, although she hadn’t invited him to enter. He half turned and made a swift, impatient gesture for someone on the other side of the door to enter, too.

  The slender, pockmarked youth who’d been taking down the shutters of the shop sidled into the house, his head bowed, his cheeks aflame with a blush. His cloak was of a lesser quality than the older man’s and frayed about the edges. His short tunic exposed lean legs and knobby knees, and his boots looked old enough to be castoffs.