The Scot's Oath Page 7

  A pair of raps fell upon her door, causing her breath to freeze in her chest. Everyone in the hall had likely thought her to have followed the other servants chosen for the Scots’ camp when she left, and so whoever knocked could only be one who knew she had not been present at the muster.

  As if in answer, another quick pair of raps fell, followed by a single knock. Two, two, one. The old signal from the abbey. She could put him off no longer, for either of their sakes.

  She walked to the door and placed her mouth near the seam of wall. “Who is it?” she called quietly.

  “You bloody well know who it is, Beryl.”

  She slid the bolt and opened the door, allowing Lucan Montague to slip inside. She secured the door once more and turned to face him. His face was stony—she had no idea in which direction he would go.

  But then he held out his arms. “I am so very glad to see you.”

  Beryl flew into them with a cry of relief and pressed her face into his chest.

  “I may take a strap to you later,” he amended, “but I am truly glad.”

  “Oh, Lucan, I had no idea you would be here so soon.” She pulled away. “Why are you here, and with that Scottish man?”

  “Why am I here?” he queried with a stern look. “Iris Montague, you know bloody well why I’m here. Why are you bloody here? And as Lady Hargrave’s bloody maid, no less! Are you mad? Why are you called Beryl? When did you arrive? Rolf implied—”

  Iris held up a palm. “Come, sit down,” she said. “I don’t have long, but I can tell you the very first of it. Or show you, rather.” She gathered the pages and her leather portfolio together and held them out to him.

  He took them. “What is all this?”

  “What I’m bloody doing at Darlyrede House, dear brother.”

  Lucan sifted through the pages as she spoke, quickly at first, and then his movements slowed, his eyes widening.

  “After you last visited, we had a girl come to the abbey; a lady’s maid from an English household traveling in France had gotten herself with child and been left behind to bear the baby. Her name was Beryl and she was under my care.”

  Lucan tore his eyes away from the pages to look at her. “That doesn’t explain how you came to be here.”

  “The lady Beryl served sent messages occasionally, to ask after her welfare. She was quite awful from the sounds of them, and I knew that her home in England was not far from Darlyrede. I read them all, and replied for Beryl. But then Beryl died in childbirth,” Iris explained. “As did her baby. And that very day another message came from Beryl’s lady. So I again responded, telling Lady Paget that the child had died, and that I—as Beryl—was too heartbroken and ashamed to return to her employ. I begged her mercy to recommend me to another house.”

  Lucan’s expression seemed to freeze. She had managed to surprise her stiff-lipped brother. “Lady Paget got you the position here?”

  Iris’s eyes widened and she clasped her hands together at her chest. “Yes,” she hissed. “Caris Hargrave sent funds and an escort for my travel. Isn’t it amazing?”

  “No, it’s not amazing,” Lucan insisted. “It’s mad! The maid came from the Pagets? And the Hargraves didn’t recognize you?”

  “Of course not; the last time they saw me, I was a child, Lucan. It was clearly God’s will.”

  “Speaking of God, how did you escape the abbey? Surely when the escort arrived for Beryl, the abbess told him she was dead.”

  “He didn’t come as far as the abbess,” Iris said with a grin. “When I heard he’d come I packed all Beryl’s things, which I had hidden after her death, into the market basket, and left the abbey as usual for the village. Once at the willow grove near the river, I changed into Beryl’s clothes and met my escort at the inn.”

  Lucan appeared stunned into speechlessness. “But…but I’ve received no word from the abbess that you were missing.”

  She smiled sweetly. “I flung my habit into the river. They likely think I drowned but still wish for my stipend to continue. Since you never sent any letters inquiring as to my welfare,” she pointed out.

  “Sly,” her brother mused. Then his face dropped back to the sheaves of papers scattered over his lap. “Iris, this is…”

  “Helpful? Remarkable? Vital to our investigation?”

  “My investigation,” Lucan corrected distractedly and then looked up to meet her eyes again. “But, yes, all of that. It’s also incredibly dangerous.”

  “I know,” she agreed. She grew solemn and then turned to sit on the cot next to her brother. “But I couldn’t just stay there in France, waiting for you. You never wrote. I never knew where you were, if you were safe, if you had learned anything new. I was desperate.”

  “I couldn’t send the kind of information you wanted,” he protested. “It would have been too hazardous if it fell into the wrong hands.”

  “I understood—I understand,” she rushed to assure him. “But they were my parents; Castle Dare my home too. I may not remember them as you do, but I remember how I felt after they died. I remember the fire, the smell of the smoke, the blackened walls of our home. I remember the ship, and arriving at the abbey. I remember those years we were scared and alone in a foreign land.” Her brows drew down. “And I remember when the rumors reached all the way to France. I couldn’t stay there any longer. Lucan, I wanted to come home.”

  Lucan looked at the pages for a moment longer, nodding his head distractedly, and then sighed. “I cannot say you’ve not done well. But now that I’ve arrived at Darlyrede, there is absolutely no need for you to stay on. I have the papers.”

  Iris’s eyes widened. “I’m not leaving,” she insisted. “Not now. I can’t. I promised Lady Hargrave I’d—”

  “Iris, listen to yourself; you just cited a vow to a Hargrave as the reason you cannot leave a highly perilous situation. If Vaughn Hargrave finds out you’ve been spying on the household, making these notes—maps, for God’s sake!” He gestured toward her with the pages.

  “That’s another thing,” Iris said quickly. “Lucan, there’s no cellar in all of Darlyrede. The house is ancient, and yet—”

  “Yes, it’s ancient,” her brother interjected. “And so, like many others, the cellar likely collapsed or was so unstable that it was filled as new additions to the hold were made. It won’t matter if Lord Hargrave—”

  “He won’t find the pages.”

  “Well, he won’t now,” Lucan allowed, “for I’ll have them.”

  “Oh, no,” Iris warned, and then pulled at the stack. Only half of them came away before Lucan tightened his grip on them and the portfolio. Without fully realizing it, Iris resorted to the French they both had spoken for so many years. “I’ve risked my neck to accumulate this information—I’ll not have you taking all the credit. Give me the rest.”

  “I’ll not,” Lucan answered her in French without hesitation, twisting the pages out of her reach. “You shall leave at once. As soon as I can make arrangements.”

  “No, I shan’t. I’ve nowhere to go, any matter,” Iris argued. “Lucan, I know you think this is the best way to keep me safe, but it’s not. If I leave suddenly, it will be suspect.”

  “It won’t be suspect,” Lucan argued. “You made it very clear in the hall that you did not wish to serve Master Boyd. Servants run away.”

  “It’s not that,” Iris continued. “Lady Hargrave is in very real danger from that monster who is her husband. She confides in no one else save me.” She pleaded with him with her eyes. “I’m all she has. If I leave her, Lady Hargrave will die—either at the hands of Vaughn Hargrave or from a broken heart.”

  “Iris—”

  “Just listen to me, please,” she pressed. “I have insight here that you do not. I am trusted. Isn’t that worth something?”

  Lucan looked at her for a long time without saying anything, and Iris knew her
reasoning was working. Lucan was rarely swayed from his decisions, but she could hear the creaking of his resolve.

  “Why didn’t you come to the barracks?”

  “I needed to make my notes while they were still fresh in my mind,” she said. “I’ll not play chambermaid to that stubborn Scots lout, any matter.”

  “No, you shan’t,” Lucan agreed. “Cletus has been assigned his chambermaid.”

  Iris snorted reflexively and brought a hand to her mouth. “Cletus? Hargrave’s minion? Perhaps I should have attended, if only for the entertainment.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Lucan continued. “Especially because you seem determined to stay on at Darlyrede. You must take up a position in his camp, now that it’s been allowed.”

  “In both camps,” Iris lamented. “In what possible capacity could a lady’s maid benefit a rough Scotsman intent on defeating a member of the English nobility?”

  Lucan stared at her for a long moment, as if she’d said something extremely stupid—or brilliant.

  “Exactly.” He’d had the same look about him on the day when he was ten and six and he’d told her he’d decided to become employed by the king of England. “You shall be Master Boyd’s tutor.”

  Iris frowned. “His…tutor?”

  “Yes,” Lucan mused, putting the portfolio and pages aside on the cot and, rising, working out his plan to himself as he paced the small chamber, while Iris scrambled to gather all her work together once more. “That could encompass any number of things. We might also say you are teaching him to read—that will amuse Lord Hargrave.”

  “I don’t understand,” Iris said, glancing over her shoulder before shoving the portfolio beneath the coverlet. She straightened and turned to face her brother. “What do you actually want me to do with the man, Lucan?”

  “Padraig Boyd is…ah,” Lucan paused, squinted a bit. “Rough.”

  Iris called to mind at once an image of the large Scotsman standing in his rugged clothes, his muscles straining at the cloth, his square jaw that only—

  She cleared her throat as her cheeks began to tingle. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

  Lucan nodded. “So you can imagine the difficulties he will encounter once Hargrave calls his cronies to descend upon Darlyrede, as he surely will. And should the king arrive…well.”

  Iris pulled a face as she imagined the Scot dropped into the center of the crowd of nobility that Hargrave considered his circle. “He isn’t quite eloquent.”

  “Believe me, his table manners are worse than his speech.”

  “He’ll be completely humiliated. The king will laugh at the idea of giving a man like that Darlyrede and its title.”

  “Which is why it shall be your job to educate him on the ways of the nobility. By the time Padraig Boyd encounters Henry, he needs to be a perfect gentleman.”

  Iris paused. “How can you be sure this is the right thing to do? Aren’t we placing ourselves—you, especially, with your position in the Order—at risk of losing everything if the king sides with Hargrave? If we let it play out without interfering—”

  “It’s the right thing to do,” Lucan interrupted, “because Padraig Boyd is Thomas Annesley’s only legitimate heir. He is our only chance of toppling Hargrave from this lofty perch he seems to have grown so comfortable upon. If I cannot prove who had a hand in the fire that killed our parents and forfeited their lands to the Baron Annesley, I can at least do my best to see that Vaughn Hargrave loses everything he has to a man who deserves it, by rights.”

  Iris stared at her brother. She could see the ardor in his eyes beneath his perpetually composed exterior. He was ready and willing to risk it all for this rough Scotsman. But would the reward be worth it?

  “Will we regain our lands? If Padraig Boyd succeeds?”

  Lucan gave the slightest shrug. “I don’t know. Sheep and cattle graze about the ruin. Have you been?”

  A scratching sounded upon the window, prompting Iris to huff in annoyance when in reality she was glad for the interruption that prevented her from answering her brother’s question. “He must have heard you.”

  “Who?” Lucan asked, and then almost immediately, “Surely not—”

  Iris opened the window and the white, slithering fog that was Satin slid through the opening and bounded to the floor, trotting at once to Lucan to wind about his ankles.

  “Bon jour, mon petit ami,” Lucan said, a smile in his voice as he bent and scooped up the cat. “My God, I thought I’d never see this scoundrel again. I can’t believe you brought him.”

  “I couldn’t leave him,” Iris lamented as she stepped forward to scratch Satin’s forehead. “Unfortunately, cats bring out hectics and choking asthma in Lady Hargrave. It’s been all I can do to keep him hidden, and keep Cook from taking a cleaver to him every time her ladyship sneezes.”

  Lucan chuckled. “Well, I say a bit of a tickle is a small price to pay for a maid as devoted as you.”

  “It’s more serious an aversion than just a tickle, Lucan. It could truly kill her. I must be very careful. And now I’ll need to change my gown before I visit her tonight. Even one hair…”

  Lucan sobered and looked down into Iris’s face. “It’s obvious that you have become attached to her, Iris. But you must remember, regardless of the danger that Lady Hargrave might be in, your safety is paramount. Tread carefully. Caris Hargrave was friends with our mother, remember.”

  “Maybe that’s why I feel so protective of her,” Iris mused. “She is the closest thing I have to a parent. Will you tell Padraig Boyd I am your sister?”

  Lucan shook his head. “It’s too soon. Everything here is too foreign, and he is yet too impulsive. We cannot trust that he would understand our motivations, nor that he might not slip at the wrong moment or with the wrong person. I don’t think he realizes just how deadly a place Darlyrede House is. But he will.”

  Iris nodded and sighed, dropping her hand. “When shall I begin?”

  “Today,” Lucan insisted. “Now that we have decided our path, we can waste not another moment. Upon my honor, we shall need each one.” Lucan took Satin to the window and prodded him out.

  “I trust that I’ll not be receiving any more surprise visits from you in my chamber,” Iris said as she followed her brother to the door. She stepped around him to place her hand on the latch.

  “We shall see enough of each other in Master Boyd’s presence, I think.” He leaned in to press a kiss to her temple. “I’m glad you are here, Iris.”

  She smiled up at him. “As am I.” Iris opened the door and peered both ways down the dark corridor before stepping aside and letting him pass.

  “Wait,” Lucan whispered, trying to turn back into the chamber. “The portfolio…”

  Iris shoved the door closed and bolted it, resting her back against it with a grin.

  Chapter 6

  By the time Padraig was led back to his chamber by Lucan Montague, his head was spinning, and not only from being overwhelmed at Darlyrede’s prosperity—the place was indeed a veritable empire. The steward had walked him about the grounds within the tall stone walls, passing innumerable industries of the hold, and all the servants employed there were busy at their tasks, unsmiling, unfriendly. The majority of them wouldn’t raise their eyes to meet Padraig’s gaze, and those who did regarded him with outright suspicion.

  It was a rich man’s home, that was certain. Padraig guessed the whole of the habitable part of the island of Caedmaray could be set down neatly within the walls, with no risk of rubbing up against the stone. Padraig had asked stupidly where the grazing animals were, and Rolf’s confused expression before he composed himself to answer that they were with the shepherds in the fields had prompted him to keep any further rash inquiries to himself for the time being. But as they strolled briskly between cottages and stalls and canopies housing the trades of Darlyrede, Padraig’s worry
increased.

  This had been his father’s home. All this wealth had belonged to Thomas Annesley, third Baron Annesley. How could that be reconciled with Tommy Boyd—the gruff, strong, quiet man Padraig knew simply as Da. Darlyrede still belonged to him. Or belonged perhaps to Padraig now.

  What was he to do with it all? Padraig knew only sheep, and fishing, and the weather, and the sea.

  They were walking back along the wall toward the keep when the projectile glanced off Padraig’s skull from above. His vision flickered, he staggered, and Rolf grabbed his arm. The servants gathered nearby gasped in fright.

  “Lord, are you all right?”

  Padraig brought his hand away from his bloody scalp; he could feel the gash beneath his hair. He looked down at the burst wooden pail at his feet, its load of stones spilled in the dirt. He and Rolf looked to the top of the wall in the same moment, but there was nothing to be seen along the walk.

  “Fell off the ledge, you think, Rolf?” Padraig muttered.

  The steward didn’t answer, although his expression was dark with anger.

  The knight didn’t seem surprised. “And so it begins,” Lucan mused grimly.

  A thorny lump had grown in Padraig’s stomach—along with the throbbing ache in his head—by the time Rolf made his excuses and left Padraig with the English knight once more.

  They were not truly alone, though—the chamber held a handful of the servants Padraig had met earlier in the barracks and, after Padraig’s head wound had been tended, they all seemed bent to some task; the chamber was a quiet hive of activity.

  “We shall commence with your wardrobe,” Montague announced in a businesslike tone, moving around the bed to set up his ever-present packet of ink and quill and parchment on the small table, as if Padraig hadn’t just nearly been killed in the bailey.

  The matronly woman Lucan had chosen in the hall, whom Padraig now knew was called Marta, approached him, a long ribbon stretched between her hands.

  “If you’d be so kind as to hold out your arms, Master Boyd?” she queried. Upon Padraig’s hesitation, she demonstrated, lifting her thick arms to her sides like a seabird coasting on a warm current of air.