Norwyck's Lady

“Hold, lass,” Alice said. “I cannot tell ye. I know too little of it. Lie back, though, and let me look at the gash on yer poor skull.”

Marguerite did as she was told, suddenly aware of her lack of proper dress. She slid down into the bed, quickly pulling the blanket up to her shoulders.

“Lord Norwyck says yer eyes aren’t right, neither.”

“That’s right, but my vision has improved since I awoke this afternoon,” Marguerite said, striving to ignore the lord’s looming presence. “’Tis still not entirely clear, but much better than ’twas.”

“That’s a good sign, then,” the healer said. “I expect yer memory will return soon, too.”

“Oh, Alice, do you think so?” Marguerite said, grasping the old woman’s hand in her own.

“Well, I can’t be sure,” Alice replied, “but I’d say there’s hope, at least.”

“That’s all I’ve prayed for,” Marguerite said quietly.

Alice extricated her hand from Marguerite’s and patted her shoulder. She turned to Lord Norwyck, who stood just behind her. “Naught more can I do, m’lord,” she said. “I’ll be happy to come if there’s any change, but I expect these scrapes and gashes to be healed within the fortnight.”

“And her memory?”

“No promises there, m’lord,” Alice said with a smile. “’Tis up to the good Lord to restore it.”

Bart followed the old healer to the door and partway down the stairs. “What do you make of her?”

“In what way, m’lord?”

“Do you think she speaks the truth?”

“Ye mean, about her memory?” Alice asked. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. She seems sincere enough, and I’d hate to think of one so fair as a liar….” She hesitated, and Bart knew she thought of Felicia. “But I have no way of knowing.”

Bartholomew had to agree. The woman seemed ingenuous enough, but the most accomplished liars were capable of fooling anyone. He returned to the tower room and found the lady out of bed.

“Oh!” she cried, whirling away from the long, narrow window that overlooked the beach and the sea beyond. “I did not realize…”

“Realize what?” She was unbelievably beautiful, Bart mused, with her lush hair cascading around her shoulders and her lovely eyes focused upon him. Her body was covered in a filmy silk chemise, but it clung to her, somehow making her more alluring than if she’d been naked.

“Realize th-that you would be coming back.”

“Making it necessary to continue with your little sport?”

“My s-sport, my lord?”

Bart had to admit she was fairly convincing. ’Twas no wonder old Alice had been taken in by her pretty face, her woeful tale. Hardening his heart against any sympathy he might feel, he approached her.

“Tell me what you recall of the storm and the ship you were on.”

“Naught, my lord,” she said. “But I dreamed while I slept this afternoon. That I was drowning.”

Which revealed exactly nothing. Bart gazed into those pale green eyes and sought the truth. She appeared to be naught but a guileless maiden, yet he knew better than to trust appearances. His innocent Felicia had duped not only him, but William and Sir Walter, as well.

“That’s all?” he asked coolly.

“Nay,” she replied. “I saw faces…the same faces that appear in my mind sometimes while I’m awake. Yet I have no idea who they are.”

“Very convenient for you.”

“I—I do not understand why you should mistrust me so, my lord,” she said, clearly unnerved by his proximity. He moved even closer. He would frighten the truth out of her if necessary. “I have naught to gain by feigning this malady.”

“Nay?” he said as he closed the distance between them. “Then you have no allegiance to Laird Armstrong or his ally, Carmag MacEwen?” he asked quietly. His face was a mere breath away from hers. Another inch and his chest would touch her breast.

“These names mean naught to me,” she whispered.

He was close enough to kiss her, and every muscle and sinew of his body urged him to abandon his questions and do so. He tipped his head and leaned forward, intent upon tasting her. His eyelids lowered slightly.

The chamber door burst open with a crash, spilling argumentative children into the room. Bartholomew raised his head and, with a calm he did not feel, turned to look at the intruders, his young siblings.

“Eleanor. Kate,” he said, enunciating each name carefully. He crossed his arms over his chest and willed his pulse to slow as Eleanor ran to him. “What is the purpose of this intrusion?”

“She does not mind me, Bartholomew,” Kathryn began. She cast a scathing look at her sister, who now clung to Bart’s legs.

“I tried to stop them, Bart,” John said sheepishly. “I never intended for them to bring their argument all the way up here.”

“Where is your nurse?” Bart asked.

“We have no need of a nurse, Bartholomew!” Kate declared, placing her hands upon her hips. She had become a rigid little tyrant in the past few months, often resorting to tears when she did not get her way. Bart had hoped she would ease back into childhood, now that the worst seemed to be in the past, but it was clear he would have to deal with her.

Yet how would he go about it? She might have recovered from the death of their father, but for Felicia and William to have followed within the year—well, ’twas too much for the child.

“Ellie,” he said, turning his sister loose from his legs. “Can you not listen to Kate when she speaks to you?”

“Nay, Bartie! I don’t want to!”

Obviously. “Eleanor, Kathryn has only your—”

“She is a bully!” Ellie cried. “She thinks she is Mama, or Papa, but she’s not!”

Kathryn screeched and lunged for Eleanor, but John held her back. Bartholomew pushed Eleanor behind him.

“Kate, I will see you in the nursery momentarily,” he said, averse to continuing such a display before Marguerite. “John, will you see that she gets there?”

“Aye,” John replied, his voice sounding odd.

“But—” Kathryn began.

“I will speak to you downstairs,” Bart said firmly, and John pulled his sister’s arm and drew her out of the tower chamber. “And you…” He crouched down to look Eleanor in the eye. “You must stop giving your sister so much trouble. She’s only trying to look after you.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Ellie said, looking down at the floor and pushing out her lower lip. “She’s not my mama or my nurse. Besides, I’m big now. I can look after myself.”

The child’s head barely reached his waist, yet she thought she was big. He’d have laughed aloud if Lady Marguerite had not been there to witness it.