Tori Phillips - Halloween Knight

Her lips curled into a weak smile. “Is your squire’s name Bertrum by any chance?”

He blinked at her. “How the devil did you—?” He rubbed his itching nose.

For the first time, Belle actually laughed. The music of her mirth filled his ears like a summer’s song.

“Don’t tell me you are Griselda’s unfortunate suitor?”

Mark shrugged. “Twas not a bad idea for gaining entry into the castle though I must confess I was not prepared for the woman herself. Zounds! Mother Nature did not fashion Mistress Fletcher well. And may the good Lord amend her voice or render it silent altogether. She squeals like a stuck pig!”

Belle gave him an arch look. “My spy tells me that you sang to her, paid her loving compliments and kissed her hand.”

“Twas all in counterfeit, chuck. I swear!” Why did he feel like an impaled worm on a fish hook? “Trust me, sweet Belle. Twas all for you.”

Belle rapped him on the chest with her knuckle. “Ha! I have heard you whisper that watery vow in a trusting maiden’s ear too many times.”

Mark rubbed his nose again. “Do you think I enjoy playing Griselda’s swain?”

A mischievous smile curled her lovely lips. “After all these years of chasing skirts, methinks tis a just punishment for you, Marcus.”

He pulled his handkerchief out of his sleeve and blew his nose before giving her an answer to her cruel observation. “I had only intended to enact the role one day before I carried you out of this den. The mere thought of Griselda’s company is enough to curdle any man’s ardor—even mine.”

Belle chuckled. “Poor Marcus! I fear you must continue to act the love-struck fool for a while longer.”

He swore into the depths of his handkerchief. Either the dust or the moldy straw made his nose run and his eyes water. “Until when?” he asked groaning inwardly.

“Until I can devise a plan to send Mortimer and his ill-favored sister fleeing from Bodiam forever.”

Mark sneezed. “Forsooth, you are a wicked lass to wish this fate on me, Belle. By the book, what plagues my nose?”

In answer, Belle lifted a corner of her blanket. An overweight feline regarded Mark with large amber eyes. “I had forgotten that you cannot endure the company of a cat. Tis Dexter, my best friend.”

Mark sneezed again by way of salutation. “Does he reside with you here?”

She nodded. Then she lifted the great hairy brute out of his nest and plopped him on her lap. “Aye, he keeps me warm at night and brings me bits of food now and then—also the occasional rat, quite dead, of course.” The creature purred in a loud, bragging manner.

Mark shuddered. “How delightful!” He regarded the cat with open disgust. “Belle, forget this foolish whim. You should not sleep another night in this hole with a rat-bearing cat!” I would make you a far better bedfellow if I could. Taken aback by this thought, Mark hurried on. “Once in the safety of Wolf Hall we will plot against Mortimer and his ungodly sister.”

Belle hugged the cat closer to her. “Never! You may as well go home, Mark, and leave me in mine.”

With a muttered oath, he stood and brushed bits of straw from his dark blue hose. As a child, Belle had been as stubborn as a jackass. Why did he think she had changed now? “Very well! I am a fool of all fools but I will do what you ask of me, though the cost is high. That shameless jade tried to lead me to her bedchamber after supper this evening. Aye, and we had only met a few hours earlier!”

Belle whispered into one of the cat’s pointed black ears. “Poor Griselda must be very desperate indeed!”

“She breaks looking glasses with her toothy smiles,” Mark muttered.

Belle waved him away. “Begone, Marcus. Get your beauty sleep so that you may be even more enticing to the fair Griselda on the morrow.”

“This is not what I had bargained for,” he grumbled. He sneezed again.

Belle peeled off his cloak and held it up to him.

He shook his head. “Keep it. The night is cold. Twill warm you better than that ball of fur.”

“Nay, I cannot,” she insisted. “Mortimer visits me daily. He would spy it at once and guess your true intentions. The knave may look like a toad, but he has a quick mind. Be warned. He hides a thousand daggers in his thoughts.”

Mark retrieved his cloak with great reluctance. “Sleep well, chou-chou,” he said with forced cheer. “I will come again tomorrow night.”

“May your angel protect you till then,” she replied.

He put his hand to the latch, then paused and glanced over his shoulder at her. In spite of her miserable condition, she tossed him a challenging look, the very same expression she had worn just before she had pushed him off the tree branch. The memory of that last encounter simmered in his mind. Why not?

He put down his lantern, crossed the space between them in three long strides, then bent over her. Before she could utter a startled objection, he kissed her full on her lips.

His broken arm and the eight years’ wait had been well worth it. Belle tasted of paradise. He ducked her flailing fists.

“Where,” she sputtered with delectable anger, “in your great heap of knowledge, did you locate that idea?”

He winked at her. “Been thinking about that for a long time, ma petite chou-chou.”

Humming a bawdy tune under his breath, he let himself out of the little chamber. Once on the other side of the door, he sobered. With great reluctance, he relocked Belle’s cheerless prison.

Dexter mewed in Belle’s ear then patted her face with one of his forepaws. Slowly she awoke to a gray day. Fat raindrops plopped on the stone ledge of the open window.

“Go find a rat, Dexter,” she groaned as she snuggled deeper in the delicious warmth of her blankets.

Blankets? Belle shook the cobwebs of sleep from her mind. Dexter sat down and stared fixedly at her. His long white whiskers quivered. Barely believing her sudden good fortune, Belle counted three blankets where last evening there had been only one. The topmost was her familiar filthy covering that had kept the winds at bay. It hid two plain brown blankets made of thick wool—clean and free of rents.

“Oh, Dexter! What kindly spirit visited us last night?”

Mark’s kiss still tingled on her lips. She banished the disturbing memory. Nay! He had left her long before she fell asleep.

“Besides he hates me,” she explained to the cat. “He nearly lost the use of his sword arm because of my childish prank. That kiss of his was merely…unfinished business.”

Dexter got up, stretched then pawed at a loose pile of straw. He mewed once or twice for Belle’s attention. His claws scraped against something unfamiliar.

Belle investigated. Dexter had unearthed a covered crock that was still very warm to the touch. When she raised its lid, the aroma of stewed meat and seasoned vegetables wafted in the chill breeze.

“Oh most blessed spirit!” Belle cried with joy. Lifting the pot to her mouth, she drank greedily. “Kat would chide my lack of proper manners if she saw me now, but tis a goodly broth! Heaven-sent to be sure!’

Dexter licked his lips with a long pink tongue by way of reminding Belle to share her wealth as he had shared his with her. She poured a little gravy into the lid.

“Someday, Dexter, you will overeat and explode,” she observed with a smile. Then something red in the straw caught her eye. “More wonders?” she asked the cat.

She picked up one of her stepmother’s precious roses, its stem plucked free of thorns. The last bloom of this year, Belle surmised as she inhaled its rich perfume. This gift, more than the blankets or the stew, brought rare tears to her eyes.

No one had ever given her a flower before, not even Cuthbert.