His Duty, Her Destiny
Шрифт:
Fortunately, they were too late to see her roll off the bed and pull her shirt across herself, but further investigations showed that there were unusual drops of moisture hanging along the lower lids of their mistress’s eyes, prevented from falling only by the thick fringe of black lashes. And then they saw the blood, and Nicola had to do some very quick thinking, in spite of feeling faint.
But the two maids could recognise a sword wound when they saw one. And so it was that only a very few people ever knew exactly what had transpired on that early morning in mid-June in the year 1473 at Lady Nicola Coldyngham’s London home on Bishops-gate.
After a twelve-year absence, this was perhaps not the best way for Sir Fergus Melrose to reintroduce himself to Lady Nicola, though it typified their brief encounters in the past when invariably she had been the one to come limping home. She had been a nuisance then, a scruffy little hoyden with a too-large mouth and eyes that tilted upwards at the corners, like an imp. Now, her face had grown to accommodate the mouth more comfortably, and the pointed impish chin was the neatest he’d ever seen. But the eyes…ah, those eyes. He’d had a hard time concentrating on the sword-play with those great dark-lashed orbs sending out beams of hostility and rivalry at him, which he had purposely called temper, just to rile her more. They were eyes he could have drowned in.
It was not temper, of course, but passion and some fear, commodities he’d seen plenty of during those early days when keeping up with her adored brothers meant everything to her. Even at sixteen he’d been aware of problems, for Nicola was the product of Lord Coldyngham’s third wife who had found the demands of mothering too great for her after Patrick’s birth. The following years of being motherless from the age of three had had an effect on the daughter, which she had handled in the only way she understood, by being one of the sons. Fergus was both astonished and relieved to see that the strategy had done no obvious damage, though some traits still lingered, apparently.
He retraced his steps down to the great hall, though not nearly as great as the one at her family home in Wiltshire where big windows held stained glass coats of arms and heraldic crests that the Coldyngham brothers knew by heart. Though well known and respected, his own family could boast only four Scottish generations that had acquired wealth by the usual dubious means and by the shrewd business flair common to all the Melrose elders. And now he had come, at last, to make good the promise to his father last year, just before his untimely death. Nicola’s eldest brother, the new Lord Coldyngham, had said he would meet him here, and Fergus felt certain Nicola would never tell her brother how she had just lost a contest. She had never been one to cry for sympathy.
I can manage without you, she had said to him. And how would you know what’s changed? Again, he felt the soft weight of her in his arms and saw the forbidden fruit of her breast with its shocking stripe of red, the most beautiful and strangely moving sight he could ever remember. In twelve years it was to be expected that changes would have occurred, but never in his life would he have believed how such an unkempt and boyish lass could turn into the ravishing and fiery woman able to accept his challenge to a bout of fencing.
Her unusually physical and competitive childhood had kept her sharp and trim, yet there was now a heart-stopping vulnerability to go with the luscious curves of her body that, as a brash lad of sixteen, he had not had the wit to expect. The hardest part of the contest had been to ignore the element of sheer feminine loveliness, the slender sway and graceful dancing steps, the pull of the linen shirt across her breasts, but it was also why he had prolonged the contest when he could have ended it in seconds. Perhaps that vision of the captivating Nicola, the swanlike, pristine, unknown Nicola, was the reason for his stupid mistake at the end.
She was, naturally, still as angry and contrary as she’d been as a young lass when she had refused to conform to anyone’s ideals of ladylike behaviour. Not even at eleven and twelve years old had she made the slightest effort to show him the docile good manners and obedience of a wife-in-the-making. He had never intended to oblige his father on that score, but she had done nothing to make him change his mind. Not then. Nor had he commended himself to her as he’d been instructed to do.
But if he had known how she would blossom like an exotic flower, would he have felt differently about his father’s wishes? Would he have anticipated taking her to bed as he did now? Would he have looked forward to contests of fighting and loving, subduing her, making her yelp with pleasure instead of anger? God, how he wanted her. How he was intrigued by the tangled facets of her womanliness. Come what may, he would have to show her that he was not the unkind, unlikeable lout he had been all those years ago. And he had better make out a good case, here and now while he still had a chance, or she’d do something desperate rather than accept him.
Picking up his patterned velvet jerkin with the fur-trimmed sleeves, he slipped it on, pulling its lower edge down over his hips. His feathered felt hat lay upon the cushion of the window-seat where he had left it earlier, so he sat down beside it to wait for George, knowing that he’d not be long. He would want to settle this business once and for all. They had promises to keep to their fathers, George’s being to see his sister taken well care of. But Fergus had been away on the high seas for some time, then up in Scotland to see to his own family affairs, and only recently had he been able to return to his house in London where his late father’s ships were docked. It would have been useful, he mused, if her father had been here to help persuade her, for she would take some persuading now.
Behind him, a clatter of hooves in the courtyard announced someone’s arrival, and Fergus leapt to his feet, his face beaming for the first time that morning. The door swung open. ‘George…no, Lord Coldyngham now, isn’t it? Well met at last, old friend,’ he said.
‘Fergus! No, Sir Fergus now, eh? Well met indeed, man. You’re looking disgustingly fit. Were you not even wounded?’
They hugged and back-slapped, sizing each other up as they had done since they were lads with more rivalry than friendship in mind. ‘Yes, I was,’ said Fergus, tapping the tawny velvet sleeve. ‘My left arm.’ She had not liked it when he had changed hands, for it was less than courteous. ‘I try to exercise it as much as I can. It’s mending nicely.’
‘Good. And the steward let you in, did he? Nicola not down yet? That’s unusual. She likes being her own mistress now, Ferg.’ Whether he intended it or not, there was the hint of a warning in his remark. ‘Sorry to hear about your father,’ he added. ‘Buried at sea, was he?’
‘Yes. Pirates. Last October. My lady mother sends her regards. And our condolences to you too, George. I see your father left his town house to Nicola.’
‘This place?’ George looked around him at the small but elegant panelled hall with a large tapestry at one end and two bay windows along one side. Above them, timber beams were painted in multi-coloured patterns, and underfoot a drop of red blood showed brightly on the stone-tiled floor. Quickly, Fergus placed his foot over it. At one end of the hall, a long table had been laid with pewter, silver, polished wood and a set of bone-handled knives. As they spoke, servants entered bearing jugs of ale, bread rolls and a dish of scrambled eggs, butter, cheese and a side of ham.