Norwyck's Lady

Yet, ever since William’s death, the Scottish laird had made it his personal mission to destroy Norwyck. Bart assumed ’twas to pay for his and William’s part in the recent Scottish wars.

To Bart’s supreme disappointment, the Scots disappeared entirely by dawn. Bartholomew had no choice but to turn back without his enemy’s head, though he’d managed to cut down a goodly number of the raiding Scots.

He had not given a thought to the woman in the east tower, but as he dismounted before the stone steps of the keep, he wondered in passing if she had awakened yet from her stupor.

The light in the chamber was dim, but that did not account for her blurred vision. Naught was clear, not even her hand when she studied it up close. What was wrong? What had happened to her eyes?

“Oh my!” someone cried. “You’re awake!”

English. The woman had spoken English, and for some reason, the sound was strange and unfamiliar. Yet she understood the words.

“Would you like a sip of water?” the woman asked, leaning over her. She was able to make out light hair and a dark gown, but the facial features were unclear.

She nodded and accepted help in drinking from a mug.

“I’ll just go and tell Lord Norwyck that you’ve come ’round,” the servant said.

“L-Lord…Norwyck?” she queried, trying out the English words.

“Aye,” the voice replied. “You’re in the keep at Norwyck Castle. Lord Norwyck himself carried you here from the beach.”

“Norwyck…carried me?” She swallowed dryly and furrowed her brows, only to wince at the pain it caused. Naught made sense to her. Norwyck. Norwyck Keep. ’Twas wholly unfamiliar.

“Aye, he did. When you washed up on shore.” The servant was suddenly gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

They were surprisingly vacant.

She could not think why she’d have “washed up” on a shore. She had been…Where?

Her stomach did a flip when she realized that she could not remember anything specific. There were faces, and strange places, but she could not name any of them. Her memory was gone, and her sight was poor. What was she to do?

Panic seized her. Her heart pounded and her breathing became erratic. She could not even remember her own name! She did not know where she’d come from, or how she had gotten here.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she felt a wave of nausea nearly overcome her. Even so, she could not lie here and wait for someone to take care of her. ’Twas not in her nature to be so passive, though how she could be certain of that, she did not know. It just did not seem right to remain abed and wait for answers.

Light-headedness made her falter, but she moved away from the bed in spite of it. She was bruised and sore all over, with a knot at the side of her forehead and a gash along her shinbone. At least these seemed to be the worst of her injuries. The hazy vision alarmed her, too, but she had no way of knowing whether she’d always had poor eyesight. She doubted it, since it seemed so strange to her.

Almost as disturbing as her injuries was that she was naked. She was fully and completely exposed, and there did not seem to be any clothing within reach. Squinting, she extended her arms to feel for any objects in her path, nearly tripping over a chair in her attempt to reach what she thought was a gown draped over a chair.

’Twas just a woolen shawl.

The sudden sound of footsteps and voices came to her, and she knew she could not make it back to the bed quickly without tumbling over something. She grabbed the shawl and held it up before her just as the door opened.

Bart stopped in his tracks at the entrance of the tower room, holding back his brothers and Eleanor, who had come to see the wounded woman.

“Go back down, and I’ll come and get you when…er, when I…” He swallowed.

“Come on, Bart,” Henry said, pushing at his brother’s back. “Let us through.”

“Nay,” he replied, frowning as the woman stood gazing at him blankly. Her body was partially covered by the wool shawl that usually rested upon the back of one of the chairs, leaving most of her body bared to his view.

Awake, she was exquisite. His eyes raked over her, from the delicate bones at her shoulders to the swell of her barely concealed breasts, then down to hips that were not entirely covered by the shawl, to sweetly dimpled knees and slender ankles.

His siblings shoved him from behind. When he finally found his voice, he ordered them away. “Go! Go and…and I’ll be down shortly.” He turned and slammed the door, barring it, and ignoring the pounding that came from the other side.

’Twas naught compared to the pounding in his skull, in his chest, in his groin. She was beauty and grace, angelic and dangerously seductive.

Tearing his gaze away, he cursed under his breath. He knew better than to allow a comely form to cloud his thoughts. She was a woman, no more and no less. Fully capable of the most devious treachery.

He would allow her to stay until she was steady on her feet. But then she had to go.

“Wrap the shawl more securely, if you don’t mind,” he said coolly as he walked toward her.

She fumbled with the heavy wool as she stepped back, and lost her footing. Bart lunged and caught her before she fell, and lifted her into his arms.

Her naked flesh felt absurdly enticing. She had only covered the front of her body—and not very well at that—leaving her back entirely bare. Her skin felt smooth, warm.

Her eyes were an unusual light green, edged in blue, framed by dark lashes. Bart did not believe he’d ever seen eyes like hers before, but they were unfocused, confused. Her predicament touched him. To have survived such an ordeal, possibly to have lost her family in such a terrible way, was unspeakable.

Inuring himself against any feelings of pity, he set her on the bed and tossed the blankets over her. Whatever had happened was done. It had naught to do with him. He would allow this woman to remain at Norwyck until she was well enough to travel, then send her on her way.

When she began to tremble, Bart looked away.

“My lord?”

“You’re at Norwyck Castle,” he said, keeping his back to her. “Your ship went down in our waters.”

“My…ship?”

“As far as we know, you are the sole survivor,” he said, turning back to pierce her with his stony gaze. “And you are…?”

She moistened her lips. “I…I…cannot remember,” she said simply.

Bart stared at her mouth, unable to comprehend the meaning of her statement. Oh, he well understood what she’d said, but he did not know quite what she meant.

“You cannot remember?”

“N-nay, my lord,” she said. She fought to keep a tremor from her voice, but Bart refused to be taken in by that manipulative wile. ’Twas one his late wife had used to great effect. “I awoke without knowledge of who I am or w-where I belong.”

Bart chortled without humor. How was it possible that she did not remember who she was? She must think him a fool to believe such a tale.

He walked to the eastern window and gazed out to sea. He did not care to look at her now, not with that impossibly vulnerable expression in her eyes, nor the lies on her tongue.

“So. You have no idea who you are, or from whence you came,” he said. “What, exactly, do you remember?”

She hesitated long enough that he was just about to turn to her, but then she murmured, “I remember…only s-snatches of things. A face, a garden…children. I…I—”

Bart pushed away from the wall and turned to her. “You’ll pardon me if I find your story difficult to believe,” he said derisively. He crossed the room, looking back at her only when he’d reached the chamber door. “You will need clothes. I’ll have a maid bring something suitable to you. When next I see you, mayhap you’ll have a more believable tale to tell.”

With those parting words, he was gone.

She turned away from the door and blinked back tears. Not only was she unable to remember anything of substance, but something was terribly wrong with her eyes. The lord’s attitude was quite obviously hostile, as if her turning up at Norwyck had somehow offended him or caused him undue hardship.

Well, she would just remove herself from this place. There had to be someone who could direct her to a more hospitable dwelling, a place with a less frightening master. As soon as she had clothes to wear, she would get as far from Norwyck as possible.

If only she could remember. She wracked her brain trying to place the images that came to mind, but was unable to make anything coherent of them. The face of a woman…some blond children…a field of flowers…

Someone entered the chamber, and she looked up to see the shadowy form of a child. A child with bright red hair, certainly not one of the children she’d seen in her mind.

“My lady?” the girl said as she approached the bed.

She cleared her throat. “Yes…”

“I am Eleanor,” the child said, “sister to Bartholomew.”

She must have looked quizzically at the child because the youngster clarified, “Bartholomew Holton, Earl of Norwyck.”

“Oh,” she replied numbly. Bartholomew was the bad-tempered man who’d just left her.

“I’ve brought you some…What is it?” the child asked.

“My eyes.”

“Your eyes are beautiful, my lady,” the girl said as she placed something on the bed. “So clear and bright.”

She shook her head, sending sharp spears of pain through her skull. Lying back on the bed, she swallowed back a wave of nausea. “Nay, they are not clear. I cannot see.”

“You are blind?” the child asked, astonished.

“Not quite,” she replied, “but I might as well be. Everything I see is hazy. Blurred.”

“Like when I squeeze my eyes almost closed and look at you?”

“Something like that.”

“How terrible,” the child replied, placing a small hand on her forearm. “How do you manage? I mean if you’re—”

“I do not know,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ve always been like this, or if…Nay. This malady seems too unfamiliar. I could not have suffered it before….”

“I do not understand, my lady.”

She hesitated. Would a child—even this child, who seemed so bright, so interested—ever understand?

“I—I seem to have lost my memory.”

Silence filled a long, empty interval, and she could feel the little girl’s eyes upon her. Finally, the child spoke, her voice alight with wonder and puzzlement.

“You’ve lost your…You mean you cannot remember—”

“I cannot remember anything,” she whispered in reply.

“Did the wreck take your memories away?”

“I suppose so, though I have no way of know—”

“Your name! You do not even remember your name?”

She fought back tears. “Nay. I do not know who I am. Or where I belong.” She did not even know if English was her own language. It seemed familiar to her in an odd, distant way.

Eleanor made a small sound, then walked around to the other side of the bed. “Will you ever remember it?” The girl’s voice was full of astonishment and sympathy.

She felt the child’s interested gaze upon her.

“I do not know.”

“What will we call you, then?” the child asked.

She bit her lip and tamped down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her again. Who was she? She tried to think of a name that seemed to fit, but could not. Naught seemed familiar, and trying to force the memory only made her head hurt more. “I have no idea.”

“Then we’ll just have to give you a new name,” the child said excitedly. “I will share my name with you. We’ll call you Eleanor…. Nay.” It sounded as if the girl was frowning. “That would be too confusing, with two of us. I know!” The voice brightened. “We’ll call you after King Edward’s wife—Marguerite!”

“’Tis as g-good a name as any, I suppose,” she replied, though it, too, sounded utterly unfamiliar.

“Oh, I forgot!” Eleanor said. “I brought you some clothes. Bartie sent a maid to do it, but I came in her stead.”

“I thank you, Lady Eleanor,” Marguerite replied, somewhat buoyed by the girl’s exuberance. “Tell me, is there a shift or chemise I can put on now? I seem to have…lost all my clothes somehow.”

Eleanor sorted through the stack that she’d brought, and held up something long and white. “This will do,” she said. “Shall I help you?”

“Yes, please,” Marguerite said. The friendliness of the child continued to surprise her, especially after her brother’s antagonistic behavior, and Marguerite felt fortunate that there was at least one gracious person at Norwyck Keep. She did not know if she’d ever needed a friend before, but ’twas clear she needed one now.

Bart took a long swallow of ale as he stood by the fire in the great hall. He’d finished removing his armor, but still wore the soaked and stained undertunic and hose he’d had on all through the night of battle. The rain had not let up, and still there were bodies lined up under a tarp on the beach. Huge piles of debris as well as valuables were under guard down by the sea, and a half-blind woman with no memory lay wounded in his tower.

If she could be believed.

He doubted it. He had to give her credit for a gifted imagination, though. Who would ever have thought of such a ploy? A lost memory.

He shook his head and laughed grimly. She would not be able to keep up the farce for long. ’Twas likely her ship was a Scottish one, and she was afraid to admit her identity.

Bart turned when he heard footsteps approaching. ’Twas young Kathryn, who seemed to suffer most after William’s death, and from what she understood of Felicia’s betrayal.

“Bartholomew,” she said, her expression grave. “Eleanor is in the tower room.”

“I told her to stay out—”

“Yes, but does she ever listen to anyone?” Kathryn asked disdainfully. She tossed her long blond braid behind her, then followed her brother as he crossed the hall and started up the stairs. “She will not mind me, but goes about, doing as she pleases.”

“She’s young, Kate,” Bart said, trying to rouse an interest in his sister’s concerns. Yet the only thing he cared about was that Ellie was in the woman’s room. The stranger could be a Scottish assassin, for all he knew. Odder things had happened in recent months, and Bart was not about to take a chance with Eleanor’s safety.

He reached the tower room and threw open the door.

“Bartie!” Eleanor cried.

“What did I tell you about coming up here?” he demanded.

The woman slipped back under the blankets, while Ellie crossed her arms and slammed them down over her chest. Annoyance colored the glance she threw at Kathryn, even as her red curls quivered with anger. “I was just helping Lady Marguerite—”

“Ah, she has a name, has she?”

“Nay. We just gave her the queen’s name,” Ellie replied. “To use until she remembers her own.”

He looked over at “Marguerite.” Her lips were pressed tightly together, and from the rapid rise and fall of the covers on the bed, he could tell she was breathing heavily.

“You two leave,” he said, “and I’ll help Lady Marguerite.”

“But, Bartie—”

“No arguments, or you’ll dine on bread and water for a week,” he said menacingly, though ’twas a familiar warning. Bart threatened Eleanor so often that it had become something of a jest between them.

“Lady Marguerite needs my help!”

“I’m afraid she will have to do without it,” Bart said as he glanced toward the beautiful lady in the bed. “This time, she will have to be satisfied with mine.”

Chapter Three

Marguerite had barely pulled the soft chemise over her head when her chamber door had burst open and Lord Norwyck had stormed in.

She shifted under the covers and pulled the flimsy cloth down over her legs. This way, at least, she did not feel quite so vulnerable.

“Lady Marguerite, eh?”

“Eleanor suggested it, since I still cannot remember my own name.”

“Shall we call you ‘your highness’, or will ‘my lady’ do?”

“Are you always so caustic, my lord?” she asked haughtily, “or do I have the sole pleasure of evoking your ire?”

“Liars always have that effect upon me,” he replied, “even beautiful ones.”

Marguerite wished she could see his features clearly. She could only tell that he was tall and broad shouldered, and his hair was dark. His voice was deep and resonant, his accent pleasant, and there was a softness to his tone when he spoke to his sisters.

’Twas distinctly harsh when he spoke to her.

A bright flash of light from within seared her eyes. Closing them tightly, she flinched with the pain. Nausea roiled in her belly and she swallowed repeatedly, unwilling to embarrass herself before Lord Norwyck.

“God’s bones, woman,” he said, plucking a bowl from the table near her bed, “haven’t you got the sense to seek a basin when you—”

She turned and retched into it, barely conscious of his hand upon her shoulder, gently pulling her over. She did not think it possible to feel any worse, and still live.

She fell back and suppressed a groan. Suddenly, a cool cloth was upon her lips, then soothing her brow. Tears seeped from her eyes.

He remained silent, and if not for his touch, Marguerite would not have known he was there. She did not want to feel any comfort from this stern, unyielding man, yet the warmth of his hand on her chilled flesh sent shivers through her. Mayhap he was not as grim as he wanted her to think.

“I’ll send a maid up to sit with you,” Lord Norwyck said. His voice was devoid of emotion, and Marguerite was glad she had shown none, either. She was sure those tears had only been the result of her violent retching, not because of the fear or helplessness she felt. She did not really need his presence or any reassurance from him to know she would survive.

When she heard his footsteps retreating, and the sound of the chamber door closing, Marguerite nearly convinced herself she felt relieved.

Weary after the long night of battle and chase, Bartholomew left Marguerite in the tower and returned to the great hall.

’Twas insanity to allow her appearance of vulnerability to affect him. She was just a woman, clearly a deceitful one at that. Bart knew all about falling for a dishonest woman. ’Twas not something that would ever happen again.

He crossed the hall and made his way to the study, a warm and cheerful chamber at the southeast corner of the hall.

“My lord.” Sir Walter Gray stood as Bartholomew entered the room.

“Don’t get up, Sir Walter.” The white-haired knight was as weary as any of the men who’d fought all night.

Walter had lived at Norwyck more than thirty years, serving as steward for Bartholomew’s father. He was something of a revered uncle to the Holton sons, and had helped to manage estate matters after their father’s death, while Will and Bart were fighting in Scotland. Sir Walter was Bartholomew’s most trusted advisor. “The last of the men have returned from their northern foray.”

“Any luck cornering Lachann or his son?” Bart asked as he dropped into a chair across from the older man.

The old knight shook his head. “They gave chase all the way to Armstrong land, but were rebuffed by archers when they approached the keep.”

“Did we lose any men?”

“Not this time.”

“There must be some way to take Braemar Keep along with the Armstrong and his bastard son.”

“If there is, we have yet to find it,” Walter said. “’Tis always well guarded by the best Scottish archers.”

Bart made a rude sound.

“There is naught more to do today, my lord. Why don’t you seek your bed now, and rest? Armstrong is not so much a fool as to attack two nights running.”

“You wouldn’t think so,” Bart said as he got to his feet. “But his methods have been unconventional these last few years.”

“To say the least, my lord,” Walter replied.

Bart knew the man blamed himself for not seeing through Felicia’s deception. After all, Armstrong’s son, Dùghlas, had seduced and impregnated her while Walter had been in charge of the estate. But Bartholomew did not blame him. Felicia’s affair had been conducted in secret while Walter managed the estate and the children. It might even have begun before Bartholomew had left for Scotland.

“Still, I cannot believe the scoundrel will come back tonight,” Walter added.

“You may be right, but I do not trust the Armstrong to behave reasonably or predictably,” Bart said as he rubbed his hand across his jaw and his morning whiskers.

Against all convention, Laird Armstrong had corrupted Felicia. He’d set his son, Dùghlas, to seduce her. Then he’d somehow convinced her to deliver William into his trap without so much as a sword being drawn. The man was as devious as a freebooter. “See that guards are posted at every gate,” Bart said. “I want sentries in the hills north of the village. If the Armstrongs come again, we’ll need ample warning.”

“Aye, my lord,” Walter said, “I’ll see to it.”

“I’m going to sleep for a couple of hours,” he said, then he stopped and turned back to Walter. “Send someone for Alice Hoget later. I’d like her to look in on the lady in the tower…while I am present.”

Walter frowned. “Is aught amiss, my lord?”

“I do not know,” Bart replied. “The woman says she cannot remember anything…naught of her past, not even her name.”

When Walter did not respond, Bartholomew continued. “I want Alice’s opinion. I want to know whether such a thing is possible.”

“Aye, my lord,” Walter replied. “’Tis passing strange, though not unheard of. Alice will be here when you awaken.”

Unpleasant dreams plagued Marguerite’s afternoon nap, and she awoke unrefreshed. She supposed the images in her dream must mean something, but she could not imagine what. The faces, the places…all were unfamiliar to her.

The worst parts of the dream had awakened her. She’d felt as if she were drowning, as if her very life was being squeezed out of her. She’d sat up in a panic, her heart pounding, her head aching. Yet still she could remember naught of her past.

The door to her chamber opened suddenly, and a wizened old woman appeared. Gazing at her, Marguerite realized then that her vision had improved significantly. She could see the old lady almost clearly.

“Well, yer looking better than ye did last time I saw ye.”

“You know me, then?” Marguerite cried hopefully, placing a hand over her heart as if she could quiet its hopeful patter.

“Nay, m’lady,” the woman replied. “The only time I’ve ever seen ye was when ye were lying here in this bed, insensible. I’m Alice Hoget. I’m the healer in these parts, but mind ye, I’m no surgeon.”

“Oh.” Marguerite’s shoulders slumped and tears filled her eyes. She had hoped—perhaps unreasonably—for a ready answer to all her questions. But ’twas not to be. She blinked back the tears and sniffed before she noticed a tall, dark figure standing in the doorway behind Alice.

Her heart sank when she realized ’twas Lord Norwyck.

Now that she could see more clearly, she was struck by his handsome features, even though they were mitigated by a thoroughly bad-tempered expression.

His eyes were dark, nearly black, and shadowed by thick, dark brows. He was possessed of a strong chin and jaw, the muscles of which even now clenched in disapproval of her. His lips were full, yet sculpted, his nose straight and aristocratic. His black hair brushed his shoulders.

There was no softness to his features, yet Marguerite had experienced his kindness, no matter how gruffly it had been cloaked.

“Lord Norwyck says ye’ve lost yer memory.”

Unable to find her voice at the moment, Marguerite nodded.

“Can ye remember aught?”

“Only a few faces, bits of a storm,” she said. Her voice was shaky and she struggled to control it. “’Tis a strange sensation to…to feel that there is a memory there, but be unable to bring it out.”

“Aye, it must be,” the old woman said. “But I’ve heard of it—this malady of memory loss.”

“You have?” Marguerite cried, in spite of Lord Norwyck’s approach. “Will it pass? Will I soon remem—?”