Page 11 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Bink squeezed his brows together. Not possible. The priest had seemed a smaller man, an older man. A Portuguese man.
And yet…
He moved closer. The dark intelligent eyes. The bushy brows. The gruff arrogance.
His head filled with memories, his thoughts sailing out of the closed stuffy room into a shepherd’s hut. Beauverde had saved his sorry arse from a possible hanging, packing him up on a mid-winter escort where freezing his balls off had been more of a danger than any Frog-eater.
There’d been nothing of humility in that maddening priest. He’d singled Bink out for his hair and goaded him to admit his Irish. He’d pushed and prodded and tried to shame him—unsuccessfully—to make a good confession, not accepting the truth that Bink wasn’t Catholic.
Bink slid a branch of candles closer. The face was drawn, jaundiced, lips pressed thin, yet the eyes twinkled with flecks of copper, a glimmer of his own.
A chuckle rumbled up and Bink swallowed it back. Well, he’d known about the Earl, hadn’t he? Shaldon had been no diplomat. He was a spy.
“Bloody hell,” Bink muttered.
Shaldon’s dry cracked lips turned up. “You made me proud, my son.”
His chest eased, a weight lifting.Youmade me proud, instead ofyou’re a sinner, and fool, and a disappointment. Zebediah Gibson, the man who’d played father to Bink, had left the world declaring him a failure, the bad mix of English aristocrat and Irish slut, the boy with no skills but his fists, who’d left to kill men in a hideous war. Zebediah had blamed it on the call of blood, the summer spent at Cransdall before Bink went off to the worldly school Lady Shaldon had paid for.
“I’ve heard you’re working for Hackwell. Not that you’d need it, but you’ll be provided for,” Shaldon said.
Bink opened his mouth to decline any bequest, but voices at the door distracted him and a flurry of skirts rushed to the bedside. The scent of flowers wafted up, and he looked down on a mass of springy dark hair, a straight nose, full lips and a bosom.
The lady from the road had invaded the sickroom in all her road dust, with a slick of tempting perspiration making her shine.
He shook off the unbrotherly thoughts.
Bakeley crowded next to her, and Shaldon’s head tilted.
“My lord,” she said. “Sir.”
Bakeley put a hand to her arm. “I’m sorry, Father—”
Shaldon’s fingers danced up again. “Paulette?” His voice sounded like oiled gravel, but his eyes lit. “Is it you?”
Paulette. The girl, not the horse. Gripping her bottom had driven that name from his memory.
“My lovely dear. Grown into a beauty. Good you’re here.”
“I’ve written you many letters, my lord.” She clenched her hands. “And when Mrs. Everly received news of your illness, I knew I must come.”
Shaldon slid a glance over to Bakeley. “You will explain.”
“Yes, Father.” Bakeley shot Bink a look, accompanied by a quirk of the lips that could have been an incipient frown or a squelched smirk.
The skin on Bink’s neck rippled. This was the strangest dying he’d ever attended.
“Lord Shaldon.” The lady poked an elbow at Bink, trying to nudge her way closer to Shaldon. “Sir, I beg you, I must ask you, I must talk to you about my father.”
Shaldon moaned loudly, his eyes fluttering shut, his mouth falling slack.
Bink gave way for the physician who shoved in and reached for the sick man’s wrist. Bakeley had the lady’s elbow and was steering her away from the bed.
“He cannot…Bakeley, hemustspeak to me,” she said, trying to pull away.
Bakeley shushed her, and Bink could see the lift of her shoulders as she drew her back up.
“His pulse is weak,” the doctor said. “I should like to examine him. Kincaid, you will assist me.”
