Margo Maguire - The Bride Of Windermere

“But, Sir Gerhart—” She persisted.

His gaze hardened, and Kit realized she’d have to leave her questions for another time. She had no interest in testing whether Wolf really thought Baron Thomas was justified in beating her.

Their timing was worse than Wolf thought. The group still hadn’t reached Windermere Castle and night was falling fast in the rain. It was easy to see that the old woman wouldn’t last much longer, so he sent a couple of the men ahead to search out a sheltered spot to camp for the night. The scouts rode quickly out of the soggy dale and over the hill, out of sight.

It was completely dark when Wolf and his company caught up to the scouts who had found a small inn called the Crooked Ax, at the edge of a tiny village. There were three rooms available, and Wolf’s men engaged them. There was also a hot meal to be had in the common room, for which Kit was grateful, since the dried meat they’d been eating did little to satisfy her hunger pangs. She also hoped that the roast fowl as well as the bread and cheese would help to cheer poor Bridget, who was definitely the worse for wear.

Kit’s ankle caused only minor discomfort when she walked, giving her to believe it was merely bruised, and not sprained as Wolf had said. The long day spent sitting in the saddle, off her feet, did much to speed the healing process. She was able to climb the stairs carefully after supper and get Bridget settled to bed. The old woman’s voice was raspy, and her breathing sounded congested as a result of the long hours exposed to the cold damp air.

“Wash the mud off yer face,” Bridget said when they’d reached their room. “If only ye could see yerself, lass. It’s runnin’ down in streaks. ’Tis unseemly for a lady of quality to go about in such filth.”

“I don’t want to look like a lady, Bridget.”

“And why not, I’ll be askin’?”

“The less everyone knows about me, the better.”

“I suppose by that ye’ll be meanin’ the grandsons of the prince?”

Kit rolled her eyes and turned away as the old woman washed her own face in the shallow basin provided.

“Grandsons or no, Rupert’s waiting for me in London.” She turned back to Bridget just as the old woman was seized by a coughing attack. Kit immediately felt guilty for riling her.

“I won’t be askin’ ye to put on any o’ the gowns I brought for ye, but would ye mind just cleanin’ up a bit and lettin’ me have a look at yer eye and yer lip? It’ll do ye no good to have either one festerin’ under all that filth.”

Kit gave up and gingerly washed her face. The gash at her mouth hardly bothered her at all but the eye still hurt dreadfully. It wasn’t swollen so much anymore, but the bruise had turned to a deep purple with an outer perimeter of green.

“Sure and it matches the color of yer eyes,” Bridget joked about the discoloration. She gave Kit a brief hug about the shoulders. “Ye don’t know how glad I am that we’re away from Baron Thomas and his wife. That man—”

“Yes, we’re away,” Kit started, returning the old woman’s brief hug. She wanted to talk about this trip to London and somehow sensed that her kinswoman might have an answer to her question. “Bridget, dear old mother, why do you think King Henry sent for me?”

Bridget looked directly at Kit and was about to answer, then turned away. “I...I’m not sure as I know, Kitty. Mayhap he knew yer parents, one or t‘other.”

“Why do I have a suspicion that you know more than you’re telling?”

“Ye’ve a suspicious nature is all, I suppose.” Bridget turned away, seemingly peeved with her young charge.

Kit had asked plenty of questions about her parents before, yet hadn’t ever received a satisfactory answer. She knew she wouldn’t get one now.

By morning, the rain had let up to a steady drizzle and Kit decided, with a shiver, that she would not proceed another mile until Bridget was better able to travel. The old woman had been up coughing most of the night, and Kit knew she didn’t feel at all well. Kit braided her hair tightly and pulled the old brown hat down low on her forehead, covering her hair completely. She ordered Bridget to stay abed, then she wrapped herself up in her short cloak and went out in search of breakfast.

Though she knew the men had split up between two of the three rooms they’d let, Kit saw none of them about now. The only person in sight was the innkeeper’s wife, who greeted Kit stiffly, obviously unimpressed with her rough appearance.

It mattered not. All Kit wanted was a bit of porridge for herself and Bridget and to find out where Wolf had gone. She needed to talk to him before he decided on his course for the day.

“Sir Gerhart is in the stables,” the woman informed her curtly. Her manner clearly indicated that if it had been her place, she would have advised the powerful knight to leave the ragged girl somewhere.

Kit paid no attention to the slight. She just wanted to talk to Wolf as soon as possible.

Wolf pulled Janus’ cinch tight and dropped the stirrup back over his steed’s side. When he looked up, he saw Lady Kathryn approaching. At least he thought it must be Kathryn, though he couldn’t be sure for her face was clean.

Except for an ugly bruise around her eye and a scab in the middle of her lower lip, it was an amazing face. Not a dainty or beautiful face by any means, but a fascinating face. A strong and willful face. Framed by rich, thick lashes, her bold green eyes, one blackened and more than a bit bloodshot, met his gaze with a directness that was unusual in a woman. Pale, shapely eyebrows arched gracefully over them. High cheekbones gave way to a well-formed nose and full lips. The slightest hint of a cleft dented her chin. When he realized he was staring, he turned back to Janus and let his breath out slowly. Where in hell was the ragged little urchin he’d left asleep at the inn?

Why couldn’t she have been the child he had expected to find, or more like the ladies he’d known at court? Either one would have been easier to deal with than this headstrong, disturbing girl they’d found at Somerton. She was too impulsive and unpredictable by half. He was never sure what to expect from her, and now with her face washed—

“Gerhart.” Her commanding voice was direct, as well as her gaze.

She was disturbing, all right, and annoying.

He wondered where the meek girl was who’d been beaten by her stepfather only two days before. He walked around Janus and picked up each of his hoofs to examine them in turn, trying to ignore her presence.

“We cannot go on today.” Her speech was direct and imperious, as usual.

“Oh?” He controlled his reaction, refusing to be riled by her. God knew she managed to have some effect on him every time she spoke. He had resolved to be immune to her as they approached Windermere Castle. He wouldn’t let her aggravate him, nor was he going to be taken in by any feminine wiles she may possess, scant though they may be.

“Bridget is ill. She cannot travel.”

“We leave in half an hour.” His voice was firm. “Several of my men have ridden on ahead. If you have not yet broken your fast, then I suggest you do so now, because you will not have another opportunity.”

The dolt obviously hadn’t heard her! “But Bridget is sick! She cannot go on in the rain!”

“She can and she will,” Wolf replied with controlled calm. “She will ride with Nicholas, as she did yesterday. The alternative is that she remain here at the Crooked Ax.”

“You do not understand! I am responsible for her. I—”

“You? I thought it was the reverse. I thought your nurse came along to see to you.”

“Of course not! Bridget hasn’t been able to do anything for me these last few years other than patch up my—”