Lord Of Lyonsbridge

Sir William shrugged and waved his hand vaguely. “He’s good with the horses,” he said. He made a nervous shuffle with his feet. “Enough of the stable. Let me show you inside the castle.”

Ellen put her hand on the arm Sir William offered her and let him lead her across the courtyard toward the stairway, but she remained puzzled about his answer. It seemed odd that the bailiff would keep a servant whom he professed to detest, no matter how good the man was with the livestock. In fact, there was something odd about Connor Brand himself. A strange manner of man, she had told the priest. Indeed. And perhaps the strangest thing of all was that she, mistress of the entire estate and acclaimed by the most noble men in Christendom, couldn’t seem to banish the stable master from her thoughts.

The previous day’s frost had disappeared overnight, leaving a mist that hung heavy and thick near the ground. It was not a good morning for a ride, but after breaking her fast with bread and strong ale, Ellen found herself wandering toward the stables. It made sense, she assured herself, to check on Jocelyn’s welfare after the grueling trip.

She was within yards of the stable and had just about decided that Jocelyn would prove to be her only mission after all, when suddenly the tall figure of the horse master emerged through the fog. Her heartbeat jumped.

Once again, he did not wait to be addressed first. “Good morrow, milady. You’re up and about early. The very sparrows still sleep, I trow.”

She put aside her annoyance at his boldness. Perhaps manners were not as formal in England. “You were here before me, Master Brand.”

“Ah, but I’m a poor laborer whose lot it is to work early and long. You’re a noblewoman, made to while away the hours in play and pleasure.”

The proper response to such an inappropriate comment would have been to ignore him, but the amused scorn in his tone made Ellen bristle and answer, “I’ve come to England to oversee a household, one that appears to be in sore need of management, I might add. I’ve not come to play.”

Connor took a step closer to her, then paused. His blue eyes boldly ran the length of her, taking on a sparkle as he smiled and said, “I’ll admit I don’t picture you quietly weaving tapestries the day through.”

She was standing uphill from him, which made their faces level, less than a yard distant. He gazed at her frankly, without apology. For a moment, she stared back. Then she realized that her face had grown warm and the breath had halted in her throat. She backed up a step. “I’d thank you not to picture me in any way whatsoever,” she said. Her tone was not as imperious as she’d hoped.

Connor smiled more broadly. “Norman rule has robbed Saxons of many things, milady, but not of their thoughts, nor yet of their fantasies.”

In Normandy a servant could have been beaten for such insolence, but instead of the reprimand that had leaped to her lips, she found herself arguing with him. “Norman rule has brought the Saxons much more than it has taken.”

Connor’s eyebrow raised. “So says the Norman lady?”

“Aye,” Ellen answered firmly. “So says the Norman lady.”

“Perhaps one of these days you’ll enlighten me about these wonders our conquerers have brought us, milady, but at the moment, I must take leave to go muck my Norman master’s stables.”

This man was like no servant she had ever encountered, and, for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why she continued to stand there like a tongue-tied maid and let him speak to her in such a fashion. It had something to do with the fact that her heart had not slowed from the time he’d first startled her, coming out of the fog.

One thing was certain. If she was going to put some good Norman order into this place, she’d have to start by regaining control of herself. “You forget yourself, Master Brand,” she said, and this time she was pleased to note that her tone was properly haughty. “If my cousin were to hear you speak the way you have to me just now, he’d turn you over to the king for sedition.”

Connor turned his back on her and walked down to the stable, collecting a pitchfork that was leaning against the building. Over his shoulder he said, “You misjudge me, milady. I’m a man of peace.”

“I think not. You and your brother appear to be cut of wholly different cloth.”

Connor turned back to her in surprise. “Martin told you, then?”

“Father Martin? Aye.”

“We’re not so different. Our destiny has given us two different paths, but we walk toward the same end.”

Ellen shook her head in confusion and finally gave voice to the thought that had been circling in her head since meeting him the previous day. “You don’t talk like any stable master I’ve ever heard.”

Connor dug the end of the fork into the ground, threw back his head and laughed.

There was, indeed, an independence about this servant that totally discomfited her. “I’m serious,” she insisted, her voice raising a notch. “Who are you? Father Martin said you’ve lived here all your life.”

“That I have, milady. Who am I? Why, I’m your stable boy, your horse trainer, your livestock manager.” He left the fork standing by itself in the dirt and took a long step to bring himself once again close to where she was standing. Very softly he said, “I’m your faithful servant, milady.”

His voice rumbled deep into her midsection.

She stood there facing him, eye-to-eye, as blood pounded behind her ears. She swallowed once, then again, before making a reply that came out as not much more than a whisper. “Aye, Saxon, you are my servant. See that you act like it.”

Then, abandoning her intention to visit her horse, she turned abruptly and made her way up the hill toward the castle as quickly as dignity would allow.

“What worm is gnawing at your innards today, Connor?” Father Martin asked, irritated at being snapped at by his brother for the third time since he’d arrived at midmorning.

Connor set down the wooden bucket he’d been carrying and boosted himself up on the fence next to the friar. “Forgive me, Martin. ‘Tis the infernal mist, no doubt. It leads to melancholy.”

“You used to love foggy days.”

Connor looked around. It was midday, yet they could barely see as far as the castle. He sighed. “Mayhap. I used to love a lot of things in the old life.”

“You are melancholy, brother mine. ‘Tis unlike you. My guess is that it has something to do with the arrival of the Normans yestreen. Mayhap in particular the arrival of a certain female Norman.”

Connor squinted toward the castle as if expecting to see her coming toward him, as he had that morning. He’d given no sign, but her visit had hit him with visceral impact. It was not that he’d been long deprived of the company of women. There were always plenty of obliging maidens in the village to see to his needs and amusement. But he couldn’t remember ever having the sight of a female affect him so absolutely. He’d felt it the previous day, the first time he’d set eyes on her. This morning, seeing her emerging from the mist like some kind of regal faerie queen had quite simply robbed him of his senses.

It had robbed him of his reason, too. He’d spoken brashly, without a thought for the consequences, which was a luxury he no longer allowed himself. He had too many responsibilities to be so foolhardy. It couldn’t happen again.

“The lass has me muddled,” he admitted to his brother.

Father Martin looked surprised at the admission and a little worried. “Connor, you know you would never be able—” He broke off and laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “She’s a Norman, brother.”

“I know. Don’t mistake me, Martin. I’m not likely to forget my—” he looked around at the stable yard “—my place at Lyonsbridge. ‘Tis clear enough at which end of the salt I sit.”

Father Martin looked relieved. “I suspect you’ll grow used to seeing her around in time. It appears she’s something of a horsewoman.”

Connor jumped to the ground and gave his brother a grin. “Aye, there’s no law against looking at a pretty maid, is there?”

Father Martin rolled his eyes. “Not in your world, at least.”

His brother laughed. “Ah, Martin, the Lord won’t punish you for a glance or two. When you’re at Mass with her today, give it a try and tell me if you don’t think her eyes are golden.”

With more difficulty than his brother, Father Martin slid to the ground, shaking his head. He turned with a rueful smile. “I’ve already looked, brother, and, yes, a truer gold I’ve never seen.”

The lady Ellen didn’t come to the stables the next two days. Her mount—Jocelyn, she’d called it—grew restive in its stall, and Connor walked it around the stable yard. She was a fine animal, and he’d have enjoyed riding her, but decided it would be prudent to await the mistress’s orders on the matter, particularly after his outburst the other morning.

He still berated himself for losing his usual control in such a fashion. At his father’s deathbed, he’d promised to look after the people of Lyonsbridge, and at his mother’s, he’d promised to keep peace in the land. He could do neither task if he made the new masters so angry that they ran him off the place.

Since something about the beautiful new mistress of Lyonsbridge seemed to spark the defiant streak he’d worked so hard to tame, he knew he’d do well to stay out of the lady’s way. He should be glad she hadn’t come again to the stables. Still, he found himself glancing toward the castle several times a day, hoping to see her heading toward him.

This morning it was not the lady Ellen scurrying down the hill, but John the cooper’s son. Connor was repairing a shoe on one of the Norman horses. He paused in his work to greet the boy with a smile.

“Whoa, lad, slow down. What’s your hurry on such a beautiful morn?”

John skidded to a stop near Connor and took a gasping breath. “Good morrow, Master Connor.”