Page 10 of Gambling with the Earl
If only the foolish man he’d faced last night had shown half her character.
The memory of his morning’s errand made his face harden and suddenly the spell that had been woven silently between them fell away, like a tide withdrawing from the beach.
What care did he have for the running of a household he would not be staying in long?
“You are welcome to enquire with the marshal,” he said dismissively.
“Thank you, my lord.” This time her obeisance was low and deep, and it unlocked something inside him.
Was she a noblewoman fallen on hard times? Should he extend the hand of chivalry? But if that were so, why would she tell him an untruth? Perhaps she was the bastard child of his uncle, come looking for some inheritance?
Well, let her try.
With a brusque nod, he urged his horse on, away from the bewitching young woman and her bewildering tale. The marshal would no doubt offer her employment. She would not starve. And her presence at the castle might enliven his long, dull days of convalescence. Something about her called to him, like a distant memory which could not be fully recalled; the seductive sway of her red-gold hair, her calm air of confidence.
He shook the notion away. It had been too long since he’d known the pleasures of female flesh. And he had higher priorities than bedding a serving girl, no matter how sparkling her eyes. His body must heal so that he could return to duty on the battlefield.
But before that, he had a far less pleasant undertaking.
*
He slowed hishorse to a walk as they approached Shoreston Manor. His left arm was grieving him terribly now and he kept it tucked close to his body. He had done too much, pushed himselftoo hard. But he must return the cloth bag of jewels to the family of the drunkard before he could turn back to the castle.
He shouldn’t have taken them in the first place. But he had won them fair and square in a roll of the dice witnessed by more than a dozen villagers. Guy had been dumbstruck when the red-faced, overweight man before him had raised the stakes in what had been a harmless game, giving name to the Answick jewels.
He knew of the Duke of Answick and dimly remembered the tale of a distant cousin wedding far beneath her, against the wishes of her ancient family. He’d gazed down at the small table, pungent and sticky with spilled ale, and sensed a chance for him to recoup what he had lost. The bulging bag of silver that he’d needed for tithes to the king as well as repairs to the castle. He should have turned away, but the thrill of competition ran hot in his blood. He’d never been able to back down from a challenge.
Though was it likely that here, in a grubby alehouse in a small fishing village, he would recover an equivalent fortune to that which had been stolen from him? Instead of drinking down his ale and bidding farewell to the gamblers gathered around him, he had leaned back in his hard wooden chair and declared that the so-called Answick jewels were not enough.
“What do I know of their quality?” he’d demanded, expecting the addition of livestock or more coin.
When the drunkard had named his eldest daughter, Guy had been seized with cold disgust.
As soon as the first rays of morning sunlight had woken him from a troubled, uncomfortable sleep, he’d known he must return the jewels. Thank heavens he didn’t have to return a daughter in the bargain. A daughter whose life could have been marred forever by the greed of her father.
He patted the leather saddlebag beside him inside which he had hidden the Answick jewels. Last night, they had sparkled inside the darkness of his carriage, surprising him with theirbeauty. With their undoubted authenticity. He’d hoped for trinkets of some little value, instead he was holding the means to elevate the life of the girl who now, by rights, belonged to him. He couldn’t keep them in good conscience. Each time he looked at them he would be reminded of the evening in the tavern and the awful depravity of the man known as Owain the drunkard.
Although he’d seen it only by moonlight, the winding country lane was familiar, as was the approach to Shoreston Manor. He urged his horse into a trot once more, accepting the pain in return for getting this over with quickly. He turned into the driveway, noting the weeds and the tumbled down boundary wall. The house had once been welcoming, he could see it in the set of the mullioned windows and the sweeping steps up to the front door, but now it was rundown and neglected. Just one piece of the jewellery in this bag would pay for a new roof and more. How had the jewels remained unsold?
It was no concern of his. His jaw tightened as a clucking chicken scurried away from the horse’s hooves. He would hand over the bag and get out of here as quickly as he could. He only hoped Owain had sense enough to stay out of his way.
But no servant opened the door on his approach. The house stood silent and closed off to the world. He turned in the saddle to survey the farm buildings. No one was around. Shoreston Manor was apparently deserted.
“Hello,” he shouted, his voice gruff and loud.
No response, save the scratching and clucking of the chickens.
His mouth curled with disgust at a wasted journey. Could he leave the jewels somewhere they might be found? It was tempting to get them off his hands and put the whole incident behind him. But he already knew he couldn’t. He must ensure they passed directly to Owain’s daughters, and he knew better than anyone how thieves lurked around every corner.
With a low growl of displeasure, he spun the horse around and set off for the causeway at a gallop. The speed pained his body but set his mind free. He was one with the horse, one with the wind, one with the foaming sea, which was already closing over the far edges of the causeway as they clattered home. He had misjudged the tides and how little time they allowed him. No wonder his uncle had kept a carriage and horses on the mainland.
His horse was battle fit and unfazed by their journey, but Guy’s legs were weak as he dismounted and handed over his reins to a stable boy. His left arm was a long streak of pain and his ribs ached as if the enemy sword had cut them afresh. Had his exertions opened his scar? He cursed his own foolishness and then ground his teeth in frustration at his ongoing physical failings.
Must he live in this cursed place like an invalid? To do so was against his very nature.
“Welcome back, my lord,” the marshal nodded from the gatehouse.
Guy grunted a reply. He wanted only to retire to his solar and close the door. To spend another day with nothing but his pain for company.
