realize that I was not offering you my chastity as payment for my boon. If you require carnal pleasure, ’tis best that you strangle me now.” She dared to look up at him to discover that he stared down at her. “Do you think that I could greet my Lord God with the sin of impurity staining my soul?”
The executioner drew in a deep breath. His chest seemed to double its width. “Nay, lady. You need have no fear of this…dirty Gypsy.” He spat out the last two words. “I have no intention to defile you.”
Tonia sighed inwardly, her mind spinning with a flicker of hope. If she could beg a few hours from him now, then she had a chance to beg a few more in the morning, and perhaps a few more after that, until she could devise some way to escape him altogether. “I fear no Gypsy, Master Death, only the devil, and I do not think you are he.”
Though he remained silent, the man’s shoulders relaxed their tense posture. Tonia took another deep breath, then continued. “What are a few hours to you? Nothing, but they are a lifetime to me. In the name of the merciful God that both you and I serve, will you grant me my request?”
He rubbed his forehead, then he flicked his cape from her grasp. He strode to the cell’s door before he answered her. “I am not made of stone, my lady, and as you pointed out, the hour is late. I am tired and need to sleep. You may spend the rest of the night at your own leisure. I will not intrude until the sun climbs over yon mountain’s crest.” He flung open the door. A wintry gust of wind whipped through the small chamber, causing the lantern’s light to flicker.
Tonia glanced at the fat candle glowing inside its glass house. “You have forgotten your light, Monsieur de Mort.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “My people believe that a burning candle in the night keeps troublesome spirits at bay. I would not have your remaining hours—nor mine—be filled with disquiet. I bid you good-night, my lady.”
Before she could thank him for this little kindness, the headsman whirled out the door, slammed and locked it behind him. Tonia sagged against the stool, weak with gratitude for her small reprieve. She cradled her head in the crook of her elbow and wept a few tears of relief. Though she tried to direct her mind toward spiritual matters, thoughts of the mysterious stranger intruded into her prayers.
Everything about the man intrigued her, beginning with his masked visage. Though she could not see most of his face, she thought that he must possess some good looks. His mouth belied his somber occupation, for his full lips looked as if they hovered perpetually on the edge of a smile. His profile, accented by the firelight, spoke of great inner strength. He moved his powerful body with the easy grace of a dancer. Yet Tonia sensed an air of isolation about him, as if he preferred to stand on the edges of a dance floor and observe the merrymaking of others. His eyes? They fascinated her. Turquoise blue behind his mask, they flashed his changing emotions like the suddenness of summer lightning. Had she detected a warmth simmering in their depths, a glimmer of compassion?
Tonia did not intend to fall asleep, but fatigue settled over her like a thick feather bed. In the midst of her musings of the virile, enigmatic man who lay just down the hall, she closed her eyes and drifted into oblivion.
The wind off the North Sea hurled sleet against the leaded glass panes of Snape Castle’s high arched windows. Seeking greater warmth from the lashings of the spring storm, Lady Celeste Cavendish and her handsome husband, Sir Guy, had retreated to the small solar on the second floor where they played a lively game of piquant before the blazing fireplace.
Celeste fanned her cards. “Oh la la, mon cher, I have you now.”
Guy said nothing but frowned at his hand. By his expression, his wife knew she had him by the tail. She always did whenever they played piquant.
An urgent knocking on the chamber door interrupted her gloating. Without waiting to be admitted, Master Bigelow, the family’s chamberlain, threw open the door. A pale visage had replaced his normally ruddy complexion.
“Your pardon, my lord and lady, but Lady Lucy Talbott has just arrived and she is in great distress.”
Celeste cocked her head. Lucy was one of the girls who had joined Tonia’s venture into the religious life.
Folding his cards, Guy turned to his servant. “In this weather? Does her father accompany her?”
The chamberlain shook his head. “Nay, she comes alone save for some hireling lad of York. From the looks of them both, I would venture to say that they have been in the saddle since daybreak.”
Celeste dropped her cards on the felt-topped gaming table. “Ma foi, Bigelow! Bring the child up here at once. She must be frozen. Take the boy to the kitchens. Mull some ale and bring a goodly bowl of pottage at once.”
Guy rose, and his great height filled the small room. “In distress, you say?”
Halfway out the door, Bigelow paused. “Aye, my lord. Weeping and gibbering something about Lady Tonia.”
Celeste’s heart thumped within her breast. Had Scottish reivers swept down on Tonia’s little convent and attacked the covey of women there? What about the serving men, Norton and Thompson? Hadn’t they protected Tonia and her friends as they had been instructed?
“Don’t stand a-gaping, man,” Guy shouted. “Bring Lady Lucy here!”
Celeste gripped the arms of her chair, afraid to move lest she shatter into a thousand pieces. What had happened to Tonia, her beloved firstborn? Celeste closed her eyes and sent a silent, urgent prayer winging to heaven.
Guy paced the narrow confines of the chamber like a great caged bear. “This comes of folly—mine own,” he berated himself. “I should have never let her move so far from home—nor have sanctioned her religious ideas.”
Masking her growing fears, Celeste gave her husband a tiny smile. “You know that neither of us could ever deny Tonia anything. And her endeavor to retreat from this wicked world into a house dedicated to praising God was worthy.” But Celeste had never fully understood why her beautiful daughter had chosen to pursue the celibate life when so many of the shire’s bachelors had come wooing her.
Guy turned on his heel. “Mayhap the wicked world has followed her even there.”
Celeste covered her breast with her hand to calm the rapid beating of her heart. Just then, Bigelow opened the door and ushered in Lady Lucy. The young woman, no more than seventeen years old, all but fell into Guy’s outstretched arms.
“Oh, my lord, I am so sorry!” she wailed before her tears overwhelmed her.
Guy helped her to his chair, while Celeste draped her fur lap robe around the shivering girl. Lucy continued to cry in convulsive gulps. Putting her arms around the girl’s thin shoulders, Celeste willed her strength to stem Lucy’s grief. Deep circles, almost purple in color, stained the skin under her red, swollen eyes. Her light brown hair was windblown into tangles from her journey. The news she bore must be very dire indeed if Lucy had ventured out into this foul weather without even a head covering.
One of the kitchen maids arrived, bearing a large tray filled with several steaming bowls of food and drink. Celeste took one of the cups of hot ale, blew on it to cool it then held it to Lucy’s quivering lips.
“Drink, sweetling, and take heart. You are safe with us.”
Lucy slurped the brew, heedless of its scalding heat, until the cup was nearly empty before she
