The Scot's Oath Page 6

  Did he know nothing of how to behave?

  “Nae,” he said. “She’ll do.”

  Lucan closed the spare distance separating him from Padraig Boyd, and Beryl watched them closely, although she could not hear the terse tones exchanged between the two. After a moment Lucan turned once more toward the dais, and the rigid expression on his handsome features was one she well recognized.

  “Master Boyd insists, my lady,” he said through obviously clenched teeth. “He has need of a woman servant.”

  “I have little care for his insistence,” Caris said wonderingly. “And my lord husband has already given him a wench from his own…tribe. Regardless of Master Boyd’s alleged claim to this hold, Beryl is mine. And I shall not turn her over to…to such a base stranger to be abused.”

  Warm affection for the woman bloomed anew in Beryl’s chest and her eyes prickled with grateful tears.

  “Montague, you are upsetting my wife,” Lord Hargrave warned.

  “That is not at all my intention, my lord,” Lucan replied, and Beryl could sense the strained patience in his tone. “If I may speak with candor, I have advised Master Boyd that he may be better served by individuals who perhaps”—here Lucan looked directly at Beryl, and his accusation was loud, even if Beryl was the only one who could hear it—“do not hold such loyalty to your family.”

  Beryl looked at the nobleman from the corner of her eye and saw his brow raise. “Indeed.”

  “The answer is no,” Caris Hargrave interjected.

  It seemed as though everyone’s gaze now turned to the Scotsman standing like an oak in the center of the hall. Patient. Immovable. He shook his head again.

  “’Tis her I’ll be having,” he said. “Else I’ll take my grievance and proof of my claim to the king’s court myself.”

  Hargrave laughed. “You can’t do that, you buffoon. He’ll have you thrown in jail.”

  “Let’s just see if he doos, then,” Padraig Boyd answered curiously and then turned on his heel and strode toward the doorway of the hall. The echoes of his footfalls dying away were the only sounds in the cavernous space for a pair of moments.

  “What proof does this fool think he has against me, Montague?” Lord Hargrave demanded suddenly.

  Lucan’s face was stony, and he didn’t so much as twitch to go after the vanished Scotsman. “I don’t know, my lord. Regardless, Henry will be much displeased with us all at having his very clear commands disobeyed when he has already set aside his schedule for the business of Darlyrede House.”

  “Fool,” Hargrave muttered again. He rubbed his lips in an agitated fashion with his fingertips and glanced at his wife, who appeared to Beryl to be not at all concerned with this turn of events.

  Then the old nobleman let out a string of whispered curses. “Very well,” he said smoothly at last, obviously recovered of his composure. “Go fetch your beggar pet. If I can spare the king any upset, we shall all endure for his sake.”

  “My lord,” Caris whispered, “I will not allow it.”

  “Only for a short time, my dear,” Lord Hargrave soothed. His gaze flicked to Lucan. “Go on, before he escapes us.”

  The hair on Beryl’s neck rose at the phrase.

  Lady Hargrave’s chair legs screeched against the wood as she gained her feet, her pale, frail fingertips on the tabletop holding her steady.

  “No!” she shouted. “No, I say! I need her—she shall not be some…some pawn,” Caris gasped, and Beryl could see the woman’s veins standing out on her fragile neck, could see the trembling of her whole person.

  “My lady.” Beryl rose and pinched a fold of the woman’s fine sleeve. “Please, be not distressed on my account.”

  The woman flung off her touch with a wild motion that caused her to sway. “You will not go against my wishes!” Her voice was thin, raspy in her passion. “Lord Hargrave! I shall die!” The woman’s knees buckled, and Beryl caught her mistress in her arms, lowering her back into the chair.

  “My lady, I beg of you,” Beryl whispered, patting the woman’s arm, her hair, fanning her with her hand. “Calm yourself. I can perform both duties, I swear it. I’ll not leave you. I shall be at your chamber every night, as always. Everything shall be as it is now. I swear it. Please.” Beryl’s voice broke on her plea. If the woman worked herself in to apoplexy, died on Beryl’s behalf after all that she had already endured, Beryl would never forgive herself.

  She would never forgive Lucan, or Padraig Boyd, whoever he revealed himself to be.

  “We have little choice, my dear,” Vaughn Hargrave said in a sinister voice. “We must bear it until we can be rid of him. I would not ask it of you if it weren’t necessary.”

  “You ask me nothing,” Caris rasped. “You do things without my knowledge. I know it.” Her breathy words trembled and broke.

  Beryl’s eyes widened, but she dared not lift her gaze to look upon Lord Hargrave. She had never heard his wife speak in such a way to him directly, and the undercurrent of her statement was deep and dark and swift.

  “You mustn’t think such things of me, my dear,” Lord Hargrave warned quietly.

  Beryl’s heart pounded as she dared intervene. “Everything shall be as it has always been,” she repeated. “Please, my lady. I will take care of you.”

  Commotion in the hall signaled that Lucan had successfully located his prey, but Beryl did not give them the consideration of her attention, for Caris Hargrave at last turned her face toward Beryl, the motion so slow that it seemed as though it must have taken every drop of strength left in the frail woman’s body. Painful uncertainty filled her eyes. And fear. She was afraid.

  “He’ll take you from me, too,” she breathed, her head on Beryl’s shoulder, her mouth by her ear.

  Beryl’s heart pounded as she shook her head. “Never,” she whispered down.

  The hand on her arm tightened.

  Lord Hargrave’s hateful voice called out, “Now that you have sent my wife into distress and caused discord between us, are we in agreement, Boyd?”

  “Aye,” the Scotsman allowed. “For now.”

  Beryl did look up then, in shock at the man’s seemingly reckless nerve, as Hargrave banged his fist on the table.

  “Get out of my hall,” he demanded through clenched teeth.

  Padraig Boyd stood in the midst of the tables and gawking residents, but rather than appear intimidated or shamed, he wore a slight smile across the wide planes of his face.

  His bright gaze found Beryl’s, and he winked at her.

  Then he turned and preceded Lucan into the corridor from which they’d emerged.

  Chapter 5

  Padraig knew he had won that first battle, but his triumphant exit was ruined shortly after gaining the corridor by Lucan Montague’s swift yank on his arm.

  “This way,” the knight ordered crisply, walking at once in the opposite direction into a dark tributary of the main passage.

  Padraig quashed his newly birthed pride and followed. “Where are we going?”

  “The barracks.”

  “What for?”

  “To meet with your servants.”

  “Why?”

  “So they might be educated on their expected duties.”

  “They doona already ken what they’re about?”

  Lucan’s only answer was a curt sigh.

  Padraig obviously didn’t understand something that was perhaps very basic, and it was clear that the Englishman was already running out of patience with him this first full day at Darlyrede. Padraig wasn’t used to and didn’t like feeling unsure, ignorant, vulnerable. And so he asked no more questions while he followed Lucan out of the keep proper and into Darlyrede’s wide, busy inner courtyard.

  No sooner had the pair of men entered into the low-ceilinged common room attached to the stables than the appointed staff from the hall began to
file in, singly and in pairs. Scottish Searrach came alone, and her gaze immediately sought Padraig’s. She looked him over boldly.

  She was striking, and Padraig’s interest was stirred. What was she, a Scottish lass with the wild look of the Highlands in her hollowed cheeks, doing here at English Darlyrede?

  Lucan drew Padraig’s attention from the woman when he pulled out a rough stool from the end of the common table and gestured to Padraig before sitting in the seat to the right. Padraig eased himself down, feeling all the eyes in the chamber on him now as the servants lined the walls. The burly men appointed by Hargrave were the last to arrive.

  Beryl had yet to appear.

  Lucan cleared his throat. “In the time until the king’s decision, you have been appointed to serve Master Boyd. I expect that you all will fulfill your roles properly. Your loyalty, until you are informed otherwise, is to him.”

  One of the burliest men chuckled. He was ugly and bald and greasy. “My loyalty is to him that pays my wage. And that be Lord Hargrave.”

  Lucan paused and pinned the man with a cool stare. “Your loyalty shall be to Master Boyd. And if I receive word otherwise, you will be dismissed from Darlyrede altogether.”

  The ugly man’s condescending smile never left his face. “I’d like to see you try, me fair lad.”

  The entire chamber seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for Lucan’s response.

  Padraig felt like a child, seated at table and yet forced to remain silent while the adults conversed. The more the image turned in his mind, the angrier and more resentful he became. This was not Lucan Montague’s battle.

  “I am here on the direct command of the king,” Lucan began in a stern voice.

  Padraig gained his feet, but no one paid him any heed as they were too enraptured with the exchange between the rough servant and the fine knight. It was only until Padraig put himself directly in front of the contentious man that the servant took notice of him in an annoyed fashion.

  Padraig realized the man wasn’t actually very tall.

  “What’s your name?” Padraig asked in a low, curious tone.

  The man huffed a laugh and glanced to either side of him at his mates before lifting his chin in an arrogant fashion, so as to look Padraig in the eye.

  The man spat a mouthful of warm saliva at Padraig. It struck his throat and slid down thickly.

  “That’s my name to you.” His grin was challenging, mocking. “I can say it again, if you wish. Master Boyd.”

  The chamber was tomb silent.

  Padraig’s mind swirled with indecision. He knew this would be a crucial moment in his future—how the people in the chamber would forever remember his first actions at Darlyrede House, his first actions as the lord of the hold. Although his instinct wanted him to send his forehead into the man’s wide nose, Padraig did not want loyalty through fear of punishment.

  But he could not be seen a coward by the rest of the servants, and certainly not by the man’s cronies.

  What had his da always said? “Padraig, it is verra fine to have a friend at your side. But it is greater to keep those who are nae your friend in your sight at all times.”

  This man was clearly not invested in Padraig’s success.

  “Nae need for that,” Padraig said easily. He took out a kerchief from his belt and swiped at his neck. “Let it be noted that I’ve found my chambermaid, Sir Lucan.”

  The crowd gathered in the chamber gasped.

  “Aye, this man here shall be my own attendant.”

  The servant’s eyes widened for a moment, and then his heavy brows dropped. “Not a chance.”

  “Verra well,” Padraig acquiesced. “If the job doesnae suit, you can, the lot of you, take yourselves back to Hargrave and tell him you’ve been dismissed.” Padraig’s gaze did not waver.

  It was clear that the man was now backed into a corner, and it confirmed Padraig’s suspicions: Vaughn Hargrave had chosen the band of rough, brawny servants to spy on Padraig and cause trouble—perhaps worse. If one of them was refused and they were all sent away, it would diminish the evil man’s assets, and Padraig thought the punishment doled out by Hargrave would likely be worse than any retaliation Padraig could think of in the moment for the man’s insult.

  “Your choice,” Padraig urged. “Stay or leave. If you’re to stay, ’tis a chambermaid you’ll be.”

  The man’s jowls quivered, his nostrils flared.

  “What say you”—Lucan called out from behind Padraig—“Booger, is it?”

  “It’s Cletus,” he said at last, through clenched teeth. His chin lifted again. “Chamberlain is the more proper title.”

  “Cletus,” Lucan said airily, and Padraig could hear the scratching of Montague’s quill as he muttered, “Chambermaid to Master Boyd.” He paused. “There. I am sorry, but Master Boyd doesn’t know better at this point, and so chambermaid it is. It has a certain quality to it, though, I must say.”

  The man’s face was nearly violet now.

  “You’re dismissed,” Padraig said quietly.

  Cletus’s chest heaved for a moment, but then he jerked his shoulders to the left, ducking through the doorway and from the chamber.

  Padraig turned in a slow circle, meeting everyone’s gaze who stared openly at him. “Anyone else care to air a grievance? I will hear you.” He had turned almost full circle when Searrach caught his eye. He stopped.

  Her lips parted and her tongue sneaked out to dampen them, her dark eyes sultry. “I’d hoped to be chosen as the lord’s maid,” she protested quietly and took Padraig’s measure down to his boots.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m certain his…knightship will find you a fitting place.”

  Her lips curved in a smile.

  Padraig turned his back to the woman and made his way to his seat once more while his ears burned. He ignored Lucan’s squinting, quizzical glance as he sat down.

  Knightship?

  “Very well,” Lucan said at last, rescuing Padraig with a return to his gruff, businesslike tone. “One at a time; state your name and your regular duty in the hold.”

  * * * *

  It was over in less than an hour, and the common room of the soldiers was emptied save for Padraig and Lucan. Padraig leaned his elbows on the table as if he’d spent all day fighting the waves of the North Sea to the mainland. He was already exhausted.

  But, at his side, Lucan rose briskly, his demeanor that of one who had just awoken from a refreshing nap. “I’ve some business to take care of for the next hour. How might you occupy yourself until then?”

  “I’m nae child, Lucan.”

  “From your earlier behavior in the hall, I remain unconvinced.”

  Padraig’s brows lowered. “Hargrave needed to understand that he canna coo me. It was one wee request—I left the rest of it to the pair of you.”

  Lucan sighed. “Aye, Padraig, it was but one request. But it was the maid of Lady Hargrave. Do you not think that was perhaps pressing it a bit much?”

  Padraig shrugged, not wanting to admit to the man that he had done little but think of the woman’s lovely face since she’d been thrown at his feet upon his arrival.

  “She didna come, any matter, did she?” he said, trying to squeeze the petulance from his tone.

  “She did not,” Lucan agreed curtly. “And although it might sting your pride, it is perhaps fortuitous that she has been this once disobedient.”

  “Surely she doesna appease the woman’s every whim.”

  “That very thing describes the whole of her duty,” Lucan said, and he sounded none the happier for it.

  Padraig sniffed. “Thinks herself too good for the likes of me.”

  Lucan paused for a moment, then looked at Padraig squarely. “At this point, and you must believe me, she is most certainly too good for you.”

  “I th
ought you were for me?”

  “I am,” Lucan insisted dryly. Then a sound from the doorway drew his attention. “Ah, Rolf,” he said as the steward entered. “Excellent timing, as usual. Would you be free to show Master Boyd about the grounds?”

  “Certainly, Sir Lucan. In fact I had intended to suggest Master Boyd might appreciate a tour of the various industries Darlyrede employs within her walls.”

  “Och, I’ve a keeper?” Padraig lamented. “Jesus, Lucan, what’s an hour? The ignorant Scot shallna drown himself in a privy.”

  Lucan cocked his head. “Padraig. You are a stranger here, in more ways than one, surrounded by very dangerous enemies. I’m trying to keep you alive until you have learned to recognize the hazards—and allies—for yourself. They are where and whom you might least suspect.”

  Padraig paused for a moment, weighing his response. Who else in the world could he trust? At last he stood from the stool and nodded.

  “Verra well.” He looked to Rolf expectantly.

  Rolf cocked his head. “This way, Master Boyd.”

  * * * *

  Beryl paced her small chamber floor, wringing her hands. Her pages were still scattered on her narrow cot, the ink still drying, but she found she could not sit still with her thoughts.

  He’ll take you from me, too.

  What had Lady Hargrave meant? The other servants rumored to have gone missing from the household over the years?

  Or Cordelia? Euphemia?

  You do things without my knowledge. I know it.

  Beryl shuddered at the thinly veiled implications the lady had dared in the hall. There had been no one else close enough to hear the accusations save herself, and for that very reason, Beryl knew the stakes had only gone up for her. Hargrave would surely put her under closer watch now. It was unlikely she could glean any useful information about his movements without placing herself directly within his dangerous reach, and then it might be impossible to extract herself. She was already risking so much…