The Scot's Oath Page 12

  “Completely, milady,” Iris said.

  “Oh, my dear!” Caris wrapped her arms around Iris’s shoulders. “Forgive me.”

  “There is naught to forgive.” Iris smiled with her cheek pressed against the woman’s thin shoulder.

  “I shall send at once for some of Euphemia’s old gowns to be brought out—you will be disguised so that none should know who you are, even if you must be pressed into the service of that Scottish savage.” Caris pulled away. “And yet we cannot be reckless. You will still avoid being overlong in Lady Paget’s presence, yes?”

  “Milady, I swear, that is the very last thing I would seek.”

  True.

  * * * *

  Padraig Boyd stood in the center of his chamber, his arms once more held away from his sides as Marta and Rynn scrutinized him with narrowed eyes and hands grasping their chins.

  Marta twirled a forefinger at him.

  Padraig turned in a slow circle, and before he had come back around to face the women, the chamber broke out in applause. Padraig was grinning as he looked at the clutch of servants gathered.

  “Why, you look like a proper lord, Master Boyd,” Rynn said with a cheeky smile.

  “Well done, Marta, Rynn.” Lucan stepped to the fore of the gathering. “How does it feel, Padraig?”

  “Bloody good,” Padraig admitted with a nod. He was especially pleased that Marta had managed to incorporate Padraig’s Scots heritage in his new costume, cutting a square of the best portion of his da’s plaid and pleating it to be fastened to the breast of his tunic by the now oiled and polished wooden pin. He thought the burgundy color suited him, and his new boots made him feel properly outfitted to take on the whole of the English army himself, especially with the sword with which Ulric had gifted him.

  “All right, everyone,” Lucan began, but his announcement was cut off as the chamber door opened. Padraig didn’t turn his head until he noticed Lucan’s surprised expression.

  Beryl entered the room and closed the door behind her, but it was not the Beryl Padraig had grown used to seeing every day in his chamber for the past two months, with her somber gray gown and her crisp white coif. This Beryl was wearing a fitted, peacock-blue kirtle with a saffron veil over loops of braids all around her head.

  She stopped her approach halfway across the floor as her gaze met Padraig’s, and he realized she was taking his measure just as fully as he was taking hers. He’d never imagined her like this—her clothing matching her demeanor—and he was suddenly hesitant to speak to her.

  And yet it was expected of him. Beryl herself had taught him that much.

  And so he gave her a bow. “Good evening, Beryl.”

  She dipped at once into a curtsy, inclining her head slightly. The gown seemed an extension of her grace, the veil a heralding banner of her exquisite presence.

  “Good evening, Master Boyd. If it will not inconvenience you, I thought perhaps we might take the evening meal together. Lady Hargrave prefers me to sit elsewhere tonight.”

  Get it right, get it right, Padraig told himself.

  “It would honor me to receive you at my table,” he said, and her smile was all the answer he needed.

  “Well done,” she said quietly. “You’ve surprised me again.”

  “Wait ’til you see me with the salt cellar.”

  “Very good,” Lucan interrupted, rather rudely in Padraig’s opinion. “Beryl shall be continuing her instruction of Master Boyd at the meal. Grand idea, although it is rather ill-mannered of her to invite herself. Actually—Rynn, Peter, Marta; I think all of you who have worked so closely with Master Boyd these past days shall join him. You’ve no other duties for the feast, and Master Boyd has a table of stations to fill. And Cletus—where is Cletus?”

  “Here,” the sullen voice proclaimed from behind the screened corner where the chamber pot resided.

  “Cletus, you shall be Master Boyd’s taster. Anything he desires for his trencher shall be first put to your tongue.”

  “Aye, Sir Lucan.”

  “The rest of you are dismissed until your evening duties.”

  Padraig had heard the orders, had heard the other servants leaving the chamber, but he had been unable to tear his gaze from the vision standing in his chamber. She was so perfect—like a painted figure.

  “You look lovely,” Padraig said without hesitation.

  Was that a blush?

  “That’s forward, Master Boyd. But thank you.”

  “The gown?”

  “Prying,” she answered in a singsong tone.

  “It suits you,” he said, and it sounded so pitifully inadequate to describe her beauty.

  She hesitated. “Your costume as well,” she said, and he thought there was genuine admiration in her voice. “Red is a strong color.”

  “If I werena a strong man, I wouldna be here.” Did she perhaps think him handsome?

  Lucan cleared his throat. “Beryl, a word, if you don’t mind?”

  Padraig frowned and turned to face Lucan. “I’d nae have you speak to my staff without my presence, Lucan. I mean you nae offense. You have done me a great service, and I thank you. But unless this is a private matter between you and Beryl, would that you speak your mind before me. Her welfare is my responsibility, is it nae?”

  The knight’s mouth quirked. “Master Boyd, I do find your recently acquired sense of responsibility rather annoying. But yes, you have every right to make that request.” He looked to Beryl. “Would you explain the change of seating this evening, Beryl?”

  “Forgive me, Sir Lucan, but I do think you’ve forgotten your manners. Master Boyd might also desire to be informed that Lord and Lady Paget of Elsmire Tower are to be in attendance at the hunt.”

  Padraig wasn’t certain how exactly Lucan had broken etiquette, but Beryl had put him in his place just as surely as if she had been the lady of the hold. He thought perhaps Lucan’s cool temper would flare, but he only gave her an indulgent smile—a lover’s smile?—before turning his attention to Padraig.

  “Lord Adolphus Paget is well known to be one of the king’s patrons. His estate is one of the wealthiest of the borderlands, and yet his reputation is somewhat…unsavory, due to his habits and his many mistresses. Beryl was under the employ of Lady Paget at Elsmire Tower before her…stay in France.”

  There it was again—a mention of Beryl in France, just as Searrach had said. Did it mean that the gossip about her was true? What other reason would a young woman have for leaving her English mistress to remain behind in France for a time, and then taking the employ of another household when she returned?

  And why did it matter so much to Padraig? Perhaps it was because he could not imagine the proper beauty in such a position—unless she had become pregnant against her will. In which case her circumstances would be understandable.

  Just the idea that Beryl had been set upon by such a man was enough to cloud his thinking with rage. Had Lord Paget been her lover?

  He met Beryl’s gaze. “Did you run away from—what is it? Elsmire?”

  “I did not.”

  “So Lady Paget knows you are here. And you have no wish to see her?”

  “I do not, Master Boyd,” she affirmed stiffly. It was a marked change in her demeanor from a moment earlier, and Padraig did not care for it. He liked to see Beryl smiling, or perhaps flustered and blushing under his attention.

  So although he wanted to press her, and he thought that she would answer him if he did, he would not demand of her what she did not wish to willingly supply. For now, all that mattered was that she would be sitting at his side tonight.

  “Well, then.” Padraig closed the distance between them, gave her a bow, and then offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  She laid her palm atop his forearm as they had practiced a hundred times in this very room, but standing in his fine suit
of clothes, looking down at the woman dressed as she deserved to be, he stood even taller. As they walked from the chamber and made their way through the corridors, Padraig almost felt as though Darlyrede did belong to him—belonged to them. The lord of Darlyrede and his lady.

  The intruder and his borrowed maid, who was perhaps in love with the knight who followed them to the hall.

  He shook the unpleasant, bitter reminder from his mind. Tonight he was not the interloper and she was not the servant. This was his chance to show Beryl who he really was, who he could be, and perhaps make her think twice about who she would rather spend her time with.

  Perhaps even her future.

  Chapter 11

  The great hall was already crammed with guests when Iris floated through the doorway on Padraig Boyd’s arm. The smell of the rich foods that would soon be served wafted just under the great swags of greenery and ribbons, mingling together the crisp scent of the winter woods with roast venison and woodsmoke and spiced wine and heady cologne.

  They made their way to Padraig’s table, where Peter and Rynn and the others in Padraig’s camp had caught sight of them and were rising from their seats. Padraig leaned his head closer to Iris’s ear so as to be heard above the cacophony of voices and laughter and frolicking hounds, and the vibration of his deep voice so close to her skin caused gooseflesh to raise beneath the silk of the old gown.

  “There must be two hundred people here,” he said, warming her hair with his breath, and then he pulled out her chair for her.

  Was he nervous? Iris certainly was. If he made a fool of himself, it could only be Beryl’s fault. Had she remembered everything? Had she done enough to prepare him for tonight, for these people?

  Iris sat at his side while across from them, around them, the servants lowered into their own seats. Iris could feel the sullen presence of Cletus as he stood against the wall at Padraig’s back.

  “Lady Hargrave said upward of a score of holds had been invited.” Iris spread her napkin and then attempted to scan the crowd surreptitiously around the cupbearer as he attended to her chalice. She couldn’t see very far into the wall of people in the center of the hall. “I suspect with their retinues, your approximation is accurate, Master Boyd.”

  She took a sip of wine, lowering her lashes as she felt the weight of the curious stares being cast in their direction. She could name several of the guests on sight, but thankfully, none of them knew her. Darlyrede’s lesser servants would not be in attendance at such a lavish affair, and the kitchen staff was so harried that Iris didn’t fear being outed. Even the ones who looked directly upon her didn’t seem to recognize her in Euphemia Hargrave’s old kirtle.

  “I feel like a hare caught in a briar,” Padraig continued in a mutter, and the nerves in his voice tugged unexpectedly at her heart. “They’re all watchin’ tae see which way I rin.”

  “Careful,” Iris said in a quiet singsong voice. “Your Scots is showing.”

  “Och, one does beg your paardohn, my lady.”

  Iris couldn’t help her giggle. “You would have sounded like Sir Lucan had it not been for your ‘och,’”

  “I love to hear your laughter, even if it is at my expense. ’Tis like a morning bird’s song.”

  Iris turned her face toward him, still smiling. “Master Boyd, are you flattering me?”

  His teeth flashed at her, and there was no trace of discomfort on his face now. He opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the clear ringing of a bell.

  Everyone in the hall stood—a hushed roar of wooden legs on stone, the rustling of finery—as Vaughn Hargrave led his wife to their seats at the lord’s table. Lady Hargrave’s gaze stuttered briefly over Iris at the table, but she did not give her away with sustained attention. The noblewoman’s skin was cloud white save for the bright red patches high on her cheeks, and Iris grew ashamed. Here she was, playing at being a lady and enjoying the attention of the handsome man at her side while her charge suffered under the ever-watchful eye of that monster, Lord Hargrave.

  Perhaps the lady was feeling similar sentiments about Iris’s position.

  Father Kettering cleared his throat. “Let us pray.”

  After the lengthy blessing—prolonged for the benefit of the priest’s increased and noble audience, no doubt—Vaughn Hargrave held his palms toward the room with a generous smile, full of ease.

  “Friends, honored guests, my lady wife, please, be seated.” He looked on benevolently as the crowd once more found their places. “Thank you for answering my call to Darlyrede’s final hunt of the season. Our lands have prospered, and it is my fondest wish to share our bounty with such good friends as have gathered here tonight.”

  There was a polite stomping of boots and several calls of encouragement.

  “But,” Hargrave continued, “there is a concurrent occasion for which I have summoned you all here to be witness. As you know, during our long, long time as neighbors; the many years—decades—during which our holds have flourished, my lady wife and I have suffered much loss. First, our dearest daughter, Cordelia, and then our beloved young niece, Euphemia. Perhaps you do not know—as several of you cannot claim quite the distinction of age as can I”—here the crowd twittered—“that Lady Hargrave and I first came to Darlyrede House some two score years ago, to care for the young son of our beloved friends, Lord Tenred, Baron Annesley, and his lady, Myra.”

  He smiled, and his thick eyebrows rose in encouragement. “Do you remember them? Yes, it was very long ago. And yet only yesterday it seems that we received the tragic news of their passing, and the bereft state of their only child, their son Thomas.”

  An awkward silence fell over the hall now, and Iris felt a chill race up her back. She dare not even glance at Padraig from the corner of her eye.

  “Yes, him you likely do remember. Or, at least, you know of him,” Hargrave conceded. “Thomas Annesley. Whom Lady Hargrave and I raised as our own son, and even gave our blessing that he should wed our beloved Cordelia. Darlyrede House was to be theirs, and indeed it should be they who give the welcome on this hunt eve.

  “But alas, they cannot,” Hargrave continued, his voice subdued now, his expression dour.

  What is he doing? Iris asked herself. The crowd was alive with salacious glee. They’d all heard the stories, gossiped about the grand estate overhanging the river. From Iris’s investigation, she knew they all envied it, feared it, and could not keep the name Darlyrede from their lips for long.

  There had been no missing persons for months now. No vanishings. And the crowd was eager to know why they had really been gathered here.

  So was Iris.

  “As you all know, Thomas killed Cordelia on the eve of their wedding, and it was later discovered that he had done many other terrible deeds, befouling both our fair land and his parents’ good names.”

  “Those are lies.” Padraig stood in a rush, and his voice rang out clearly over the hushed crowd. “My father didnae kill anyone.”

  Oh, my God. Hargrave’s plans were becoming clear to her now, and Iris wanted to take hold of Padraig’s arm, beg him to sit, be silent.

  But it was too late. Hargrave turned his sickeningly condescending smile toward the Scotsman as if he’d all but forgotten Padraig was there.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce Master Padraig Boyd, Thomas Annesley’s alleged heir, and my special guest at Darlyrede House.”

  Any nod to polite quiet was forgotten by the crowd in that moment as guests leaned their heads together to exclaim, or craned their necks to look at the large man standing behind the lone table set apart from the rest of the room.

  Hargrave was giving them what they all wanted: a victim in their very midst. They were going to witness with their own eyes, with Hargrave in plain sight, blameless. Iris’s heart raced.

  Padraig’s voice rang through the chatter like a hammer on an anvil. “Di
d you think me to sit in silence while you so freely slandered my father, Hargrave? There’s nae so much English in me as to roll over for that.”

  “No,” Hargrave admitted quietly. “I did not think you would remain silent. Not in the least. And while I can understand your reluctance to accept the horrific truth of your errant sire—even respect that reluctance, to a degree—I must beg your forbearance to hear me out in full.” He paused, and the pleading sorrow on his face was so thickly applied that Iris thought it might slide off and crash to the tabletop at any moment. “Please, Master Boyd. Allow me to finish. I assure you, you will have an opportunity to rebut what you will at the end. I am, after all, a fair man.”

  Iris could feel the anger radiating off Padraig. She had never experienced the quiet, deliberate Scotsman in such a way—she fancied the silk of her sleeve was rippling like the surface of a pond.

  “Go on, then,” Padraig demanded, but he did not sit.

  “It has been my sole mission these past thirty years to find Thomas Annesley and bring him to justice for his heinous crimes. I do admit to you all that I became rather obsessed with the man in my passion to avenge my daughter’s death, and to give peace to the many families in our own village as well as throughout Northumberland whose loved ones are missing.”

  Hargrave paused and artfully looked down at the tabletop as if shamed, and Iris had to concede that the man was a master at his craft.

  “So much obsessed that I even went so far as to track down Thomas Annesley’s bastard children, who he had sown throughout Scotland, intent on making them pay for the crimes of a man they’d never even met,” he ended in a ragged whisper. He raised his eyes to the crowd again, his delivery perfect. “I regret that, now. And I confess before you all—before Sir Lucan, the king’s own man, before God and before Father Kettering—that I heaped blame upon blameless heads.”

  Hargrave suddenly struck the tabletop with his fist, causing many gathered before him to startle. “No more! Padraig Boyd has come to Darlyrede House along with Sir Lucan Montague, to lay claim to Thomas Annesley’s title and estate as the fugitive’s only legitimate heir. And I have welcomed him into my home.”