Margo Maguire - Norwyck's Lady

Bart rolled him over and verified that he was dead, then quickly moved on, looking for survivors.

The speed of the wind increased, and the waves crashed ever more violently upon the shore, but Bartholomew continued along the beach, caught up in the macabre scene splayed out before him. More debris and bodies were caught behind rocks and trapped among the weeds.

Not one victim was alive.

Still Bart walked, in spite of the storm that was moving in. He turned over bodies and stepped past the shattered fragments of the lives that had been lost. When he returned to the keep, he would send a contingent of men to recover the corpses and bury them. He would direct the priest to—

He stopped in his tracks and rubbed his eyes to clear them. A wave of dread overtook him as he looked upon a body lying prone in the sand. Long, dark hair cloaked a narrow back, but did naught to hide pale, feminine buttocks.

A woman.

Anger was the first emotion he felt. A woman had been aboard that ship, and Bart’s conflicting emotions warred within him. The knight’s code had been deeply ingrained, so ’twas impossible to look upon her bruised and battered body without pity. No woman should meet such a violent and terrifying end.

Yet he had experienced a woman’s treachery, causing him to hold naught but harsh and bitter feelings toward the weaker sex. In truth, Bart would lay odds that she had somehow been responsible for the shipwreck.

Approaching her warily, he barely noticed her feminine form—the tapered waist that flared to smooth, full buttocks, the long, shapely legs and delicate feet. He saw only the ugly bruises and nasty scrapes that marred otherwise perfect skin.

He crouched beside her and touched one shoulder, pushing her over. He did not know what he expected, but it was certainly not to cause a paroxysm of retching and coughing.

God’s blood, she was alive!

Bart positioned her so that she could cough the water out of her lungs, but she remained limp and unconscious. When she fell back into his arms, he pulled the tattered remains of her clothes from her body and somehow managed to cover her with his cloak.

He glanced around. More bodies were out there, and the storm was closing in. If the woman were to have any chance of survival, he had to get her to shelter quickly. And the only shelter to be had was at Norwyck Castle.

He lifted the woman into his arms. She was naught but deadweight, wrapped in his damp woolen cloak. But Bartholomew had a swordsman’s powerful build, and the legs of a horseman. ’Twas no difficulty to carry her. He shifted in order to get a firm hold on her, then started back down the beach toward the path that led to one of the castle gates.

Servants and children were in the great hall when Bartholomew kicked open the heavy oak door and strode in carrying the woman. There was silence for a split second, then everyone began chattering at once, all asking questions simultaneously.

“What’s happened?”

“Who are you carrying?”

“Is she dead?”

“Can we see?”

He went to the table and, using one foot, yanked a chair far enough away to give him room to sit down with his burden still in his arms.

“Hush, all of you,” he said. He was not only the new earl, but the elder brother and sole guardian of his four younger siblings. They were half siblings, actually, for his own mother had died when he was just a lad. His father had remarried and had a second family.

The twins, Henry and John, were fourteen years old. Then came Kathryn, who was eleven, but thought she was the lady of the hall. Eleanor was last, a mere six years, as inquisitive and mischievous as two children her age.

“There’s been a shipwreck,” he said, leaning back, resting his arms. “This is the only survivor that I found.”

Everyone began talking again, and Bart gestured for one of the footmen. “Send a maid to see that a chamber is made ready for her, Rob,” he said. “Then get some men and go down to the beach before the storm rolls in, and see if there are any more survivors.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man said.

“Listen, all of you,” Bart said, turning his attention back to his siblings. “I don’t know anything about the shipwreck, only that there is debris all over the beach, as well as several bodies.”

“Are you sure this one’s alive?” Henry asked, giving Bartholomew’s burden a sidelong glance.

“Will we keep her?”

Bart looked down at the inert body in his arms. Her head lolled against his upper arm, extending her neck. A pulse beat there—too fast, but it seemed steady enough.

“Yes, she’s alive, and no, we will not keep her, Eleanor,” he said to his wide-eyed sister. “If she survives, we’ll send her on her way.”

He wondered where the woman had been bound when her ship sank. She could have been headed for Scotland, or on a southbound ship that had been blown off course. There was no way of knowing, of course, until she regained consciousness.

“She’s beautiful,” Eleanor said with awe.

“You won’t be falling in love with her as you did Felicia, will you?” Kathryn demanded, with arms crossed over her bony chest. She was a delicate child whose world had been shaken by William’s and Felicia’s deaths.

Bart scowled and let out a puff of air in derision, dismissing his sisters’ words. He hadn’t the slightest interest in the woman’s appearance, nor would he fall in love with her. Not in this century at least. He was through with women.

The earldom would pass to Henry, the elder of the twins, and through him, to his sons.

Refusing to look too closely at the woman in his arms, Bart stood abruptly and made his way toward the main staircase, with his sisters and brothers following. He reached the first landing as two maids stepped out of the stairwell leading to the east tower.

“The tower room is ready, my lord,” one said.

“Naught else would do, my lord,” said the other, a widow named Rose, whom Bart remembered for her patience with his sisters. “The lower chambers are not yet fit for more guests.”

The bishop of Alnwick and his large entourage had just left Norwyck, and the usual guest chambers were not ready for further use.

Bartholomew said not a word, but followed Rose, whose candle lit the way up a circular stone staircase to the most beautiful chamber in the keep. ’Twas the place most favored by Bart’s stepmother, a circular room with four tall, peaked windows, one facing each direction. The children liked coming up here, so the maids always kept it fresh.

When Bart entered, he saw that a basin of clean water had been placed upon the stand near the bed. The bed curtains were pushed aside and the blankets pulled down. A long linen sheet lay on top, presumably to be discarded once his filthy cloak was removed from the woman’s body. Then she would be naked again.

He gritted his teeth and turned to his siblings. “Everyone out. Now.”

They protested, but did his bidding anyway, grumbling as they closed the chamber door behind them. Bart set his burden carefully down on the bed. He should have had Rose stay to help him, but neglected to call her back when she quit the room with his siblings.

He picked up one of the candles and lit a lamp near the bed. Then he turned to look at this woman survivor.

Her hair was nearly dry now, a matted and snarled mass of a lighter brown than it had seemed before. As he pushed it away from her face, his mouth went dry.

Dark eyelashes formed thick crescents over high cheekbones. Her nose was straight and her mouth wide, with full lips slightly parted. Her neatly dimpled chin came to a delicate point over the elegant lines of her neck. Her skin was perfection, smooth and fine.

She winced and made a small noise, then moved one hand fitfully. Unable to keep himself from touching her again, he smoothed the hair away from her forehead and saw that a large purple lump had formed at the side, with a deep, bloody gash cut through it.