brings news from Lady Adelaide,” Lady Gillian announced, while Bayard struggled to control his annoyance.
Armand might have warned him about the garrison commander, too.
Mac Kendren cocked a bushy gray-and-black brow. “Does he, now?”
“I do,” Bayard said, letting his tone convey some of his displeasure at being spoken to so insolently. “Your garrison commander is to be commended for continuing to hold such responsibility in spite of his poor eyesight, my lady.”
“There’s naught wrong with my eyes,” the Scot declared with a slightly puzzled frown.
Bayard cocked a brow. “I thought there must be when I saw rust on the bottom of your hauberk.”
The Scot glanced down, as did the lady. Bayard permitted himself a little smile of satisfaction when the Scot’s face turned scarlet, for there was indeed three spots of rust at the bottom of his hauberk.
More amusement and challenge came of Bayard’s dark eyes. “I also note, my lady, that we haven’t yet exchanged the kiss of greeting.”
Chapter Two
BAYARD WASN’T SURE WHAT to expect when he gently chastised Lady Gillian, but he wasn’t completely surprised when her green eyes flashed with equal challenge and she boldly walked up to him, raised herself on her toes, and bussed him heartily on both cheeks.
There was more than a slight flush coloring her own round cheeks when she stepped back.
“Such enthusiasm,” he remarked. “I may yet find myself delighted I was sent to Averette.”
As her blush deepened and his gaze held hers, the door to the hall opened, and a man appeared. He was of an age with Bayard and wore a long tunic that brushed the ground. He could have been a priest, except he had no tonsure, and the look he gave the lady was not of priestly piety.
That was interesting, too. Between the hearty kiss and the young man’s obvious affection, perhaps his first impression of Lady Gillian had been mistaken.
He’d been assuming she was the sort of noblewoman who would make a good nun.
Not that it mattered. He was here at Armand’s behest, and for a serious purpose, not to amuse himself with defiant young ladies.
“Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, this is Dunstan de Corley, the steward of Averette,” she said, introducing the young man. “Dunstan, Sir Bayard brings news from Adelaide. Please come with us to the solar.”
She started toward the hall, then paused on the steps before turning back to the yard. “Iain,” she called out. “I’d like you to come to the solar, too.”
The Scot joined them, then the lady of Averette led Bayard, her steward, and her garrison commander through a hall that was equally empty of servants, their footfalls muffled by clean, herb-scented rushes on the floor. Hounds lumbered to their feet, as grim and wary as the soldiers in the yard.
One of the dogs started to growl; a brisk word from the lady silenced him.
Finally Bayard saw a servant. A young, red-haired, freckled wench peered out of the door that led to the kitchen. When she realized he’d spotted her, she ducked out of sight. Perhaps she was just shy, but he was beginning to think Lady Gillian’s household was not a very merry place.
At the far end of the hall they went around a screen that hid another door, then up some steps leading to a narrow, covered wooden walkway. It went from the hall to the keep and was about fifteen feet above the ground.
One had only to set fire to the walkway to make the door to the keep unattainable save by ladders, supposing anyone was willing to risk a hail of arrows, or stones, or boiling water. If there was a well and food inside the keep, they could hold out there for weeks.
The lady unlocked the outer door, then waited while the others entered the building.
Once inside, Bayard surveyed the rough, gray stone walls. Stairs went up and around the inner wall to another level above, while others curved downward, probably leading to chambers used for storage and cells for prisoners.
Like the one in which Armand had been held captive for months, while he’d been treated more like a guest than a prisoner by the Duc d’Ormonde.
The room on the next level into which the lady led them wasn’t precisely a solar, for there was no bed or anything else to indicate it was anyone’s private chamber. Perhaps because it was so isolated from the rest of the castle, it appeared to have been turned into a place to keep accounts and the treasury of the estate, as evidenced by the heavy wooden chest bound with iron bands and a stout lock in one corner.
The sun lit the top of a table beneath an arched window. A holder bearing the remains of a candle sat near the right-hand edge of the table, and a few bits of quill littered the top, as if someone had tidied in a hurry. A chair waited beside the table, its cushion the only concession to personal comfort. A cupboard of the sort used to house records of tithes and other scrolls rested opposite the door.
Bayard reached into his belt and produced the letter Armand had entrusted to his care.
HIDING HER TREPIDATION, Gillian took the rolled parchment and went to the window. She trusted Dunstan and Iain, but she feared her face might betray too much emotion if she was close to them.
Mentally girding her loins, preparing for the worst, she broke the blue wax seal and began to read.
Adelaide hoped Gillian and everyone at Averette was well, as she was. Indeed, she was very happy, but she would explain more about that later. First, she had to warn Gillian.
Reading more quickly, Gillian discovered that Adelaide had helped to thwart a plot against the king that could have led to rebellion and civil war. Unfortunately, one of the conspirators had escaped and Adelaide feared her sisters were now in danger. Adelaide had written to Lizette, too, asking her to return to Averette at once.
Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, to whom Adelaide had entrusted this message, was a skilled knight and a champion of tournaments who had recently returned from the king’s campaign in Normandy. He would be staying at Aver-ette until all the traitors had been caught, imprisoned, or killed.
Gillian cut her eyes to Sir Bayard, who now stood with his hands clasped behind his back, calmly regarding them all like a conquering hero they should be glad to serve.
If he thought to overrule her here, in her home and among her people, he was sorely mistaken!
Grasping the letter tighter, Gillian read more quickly.
Sir Bayard was also the half brother of Lord Armand de Boisbaston, the finest, most honorable, bravest, best man in the world.
And Adelaide’s husband.
Gillian stared, aghast, at the words on the parchment before her. Adelaide married? It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be.
Adelaide would never give herself to a husband, never let a man rule her and treat her as his chattel, with no rights or say in anything. Lizette, perhaps, would break their vow, but not Adelaide, who had proposed their vow in the first place and pointed out
