Chapter Eight

W ould she come?

Guy paced the solar as the shadows lengthened around him, waiting to see what fate had in store. His situation reminded him of the time immediately before a battle. You picked the favourable ground, prepared as best you could and then let events play themselves out.

He tried to ignore the critical inner voice which calmly stated that he should never have asked her to come and sing for him, certainly not alone. She was a servant, for goodness sake.

Although she wasn't just a servant. She was a puzzle he was determined to solve.

He paused by the window and allowed himself to look out, even though the view brought him pain. From here, the view of the sea was limited. All he could see were the forbidding granite walls of the barbican and the windswept inner courtyard. The similarities with Forbisher, the great estate where he had spent his childhood, were uncomfortably apparent. That desolate patch of open land stretching out to the gatehouse could be the same grassy knoll where he had played swords with Angus, his younger brother—the only time he had ever willingly given away his advantage.

He closed his eyes to banish the ghosts of his past, yet still they rose up around him. Since coming to Rossfarne, he had seen Angus everywhere. His cheerful smile as he ran across the long gallery; his excitable young voice urging Guy down to the beach. These were mere tricks of memory, for Angus had never visited this castle. Had never grown old enough to leave Forbisher.

It was only his isolation and enforced inactivity giving rise to such flights of fancy. His lively mind, usually occupied from dawn to dusk, was free to roam into nooks and crannies he had deliberately left long abandoned. Newly empowered, these phantoms were becoming real to him, and it was harder than ever to shut them out.

Which was why he'd asked the girl to come and sing for him. Nay, he hadn't asked. He had ordered.

A tentative knock sounded on his door.

"Come." His voice was a growl. Unexpectedly, he was angry at her for coming. His request had been ill advised and he'd half hoped she would have the backbone to refuse him.

Kitty shuffled through the door and closed it softly behind her, reluctance apparent in her every movement. She wore a clean white apron with every bit of her hair swept up beneath a snugly fitting cap. Her reddened hands were neatly folded and her eyes downcast. She bobbed a slight nod and stood with her shoulders hunched forwards, so different to the graceful, upright posture she usually displayed. Then, nothing. She kept her back pressed to the wall and studied the floor as if searching for a lost jewel.

At the sight of her, something inside him cracked. His anger evaporated like a puff of smoke in the presence of her quiet composure.

She didn't speak up like she had before. Her lips pressed together as if she would keep any words inside her by force. He'd drawn attention to her waywardness, he realised. And now she would stay silent and obedient before him, like any other member of his household staff.

Damnation. That was not what he wanted.

"You have come," he said at last.

"As you requested, my lord."

"Come forwards," he beckoned irritably. "Stand before the fireplace."

She walked readily enough to take her position while he in turn lowered himself into an armchair. His long fingers beat a drum-like rhythm on the arm but aside from that, the room was as still as it had ever been. Even the flickering flames in the grate seemed to pause.

"Well," he barked. "What are we waiting for?"

Her green eyes widened almost imperceptibly but she kept her gaze focused on the rush-covered floor.

"I am awaiting further instruction."

Frustration swelled within him but at the same moment, he recognised the flash of backbone he'd been hoping for. She was toying with him, like a canny knight leading troops into a trap.

He settled more comfortably into the chair. Two could play at that game.

"Your instructions are to sing for me, if you please, Kitty."

"But I do not know how, my lord." Her voice was without expression. She could have been reciting a line written for her.

He twirled his signet ring, beginning to enjoy himself. "Let's start with a tune from your childhood," he suggested. "Mayhap something your mother sang to you?"

He wasn't expecting his casual proposition to have such a profound effect. Immediately her head lifted, and a surge of defiance flashed through her delicate features.

"My mother?" she repeated. "How do you know that my mother could sing?"

"Merely a guess on my part." He met her gaze levelly. What was she hiding? "All mothers sing to their children, do they not?" He stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle in a show of casual indifference. His mother had never sung, neither to Guy nor Angus. Although he liked to believe the coolness displayed by his parents was the exception rather than the norm.

Kitty's face closed off again. "'Twas a long time ago. I can't remember the words."

He recalled the soaring melodies the girl before him had sung just a few nights ago and once more quelled his impatience. She was like a wealthy baron, lying and misleading to jostle for favour with the king. Her calm confidence was somehow unsettling him, as if he was the visitor in her chamber. He ran a hand beneath the loose collar of his tunic, wishing he had not positioned them both so close to the fire. "Why don't we forget about the words for now? Just hum the tune."

She looked as if she might question him once more, but then began to hum some unidentifiable tune, just as he had requested. The noise coming from her was toneless and grating, one moment deep and the other painfully high. He was at first surprised and then entertained. Rather than speaking up and interrupting her flow, he simply sat and waited for her to draw the performance to a close.

"Well now, Kitty, how did you enjoy that?" he asked once she had abruptly fallen silent.

She opened her arms, her face a mask of innocence. "I don't know, my lord."

"It was delightful," he announced, relishing her look of surprise. It took all his self-control not to crack a smile.

"Really?" She was like a deer caught in the path of a huntsman's bow.

"I should like to hear it again." He leaned forwards with his elbows on his breeches and looked up at her expectantly.

Her mouth tightened. "I am no minstrel, my lord." Her voice was low and full of the authority he'd come to associate with this enigmatic maid.

"I should think not." He pretended to think for a moment, running a hand through his unruly dark hair. "I have seen many a minstrel perform for the king, and not one was as pretty as you."

She started back as if his words had burned her, and he knew a moment's regret. But the game was afoot and he would not be outplayed.

"Very well." She straightened up and lifted her chin in a further display of fortitude. "Would you like a different tune this time?"

"Very much." Guy bit down on his lip to prevent himself from smiling widely.

She started up again. This time the tune was less uncertain, more deliberately dreadful. He kept his expression carefully neutral, until Kitty's voice hit a soaring soprano note which wobbled down to a tremulous, off-key bass and Guy felt his face break into the first genuine smile he had known for many months.

Oblivious to his emotional journey, Kitty soldiered on. Guy rested his forehead on his palm in an attempt to hide his merriment, but when she repeated the same refrain, he couldn't help a snort of laughter from escaping him.

Kitty stopped abruptly and gave him a sharp look. Her sea-green eyes were impossible to read. "Have I displeased you, my lord?"

"Not at all." He straightened up and cleared his throat. "I liked it enormously."

"Really?"

Was her lip twitching as if she too was hiding a smile? Despite her humble attire, Kitty was looking less and less like a chambermaid. Her back was straight and her hands were folded demurely in her skirts, exactly like a well-bred young lady conversing with her equals.

"Oh yes." He paused, weighing up his next words. "I would beg for a third, though I begin to fear I have already pushed my luck too far."

He had given himself away. He saw it in a flash of her lively green eyes. She was onto him.

Kitty smoothed down her skirts as a faint tinge of pink stained her cheeks. "I believe I must rest my voice, for a little while at least."

"Of course," he nodded seriously, trying to hide the slight stab of disappointment. "I quite understand." He fumbled for some way to prolong their conversation. "Steam, I believe, is beneficial for the throat."

"Is that so, my lord?" Her eyes widened in what must be pretend fascination. "I begin to suspect that you too are a master of the singing arts."

She was playing with him. And to his complete surprise, he was more than willing to go along with it.

He raised his chin to meet her gaze and inclined his head to the side in a show of modesty. "Not a master, I assure you."

"A scholar then." Her eyes ducked down once again to the rushes on the floor, and he sensed her withdrawal. Mayhap she was as aware of the frisson that had sprung up between them as he was? A frisson that should never exist between servant and master. But the connection he felt was real, sincere, uncaring of position. And if he allowed their conversation to falter for another moment, this unanticipated joviality would become nothing more than a memory.

"A scholar. I would grant you that." He sprang to his feet in sudden eagerness to extend the game they had unwittingly entered into. But he hadn't reckoned on the effect which her singular, untouched loveliness would have on him. A beat passed as he took in her intelligent face, which was alight with mirth and daring. "I recognise beauty when I see it." His voice was rough, his words rushed.

She took half a step backwards. "You are too kind," she stuttered, alarm flickering across her previously composed features.

He'd frightened her. He must put it right.

"Would you like me to sing for you now?" he offered wildly. Anything to take the look of fear from her eyes.

It worked. Her mouth once again twitched, showing her efforts to conceal a smile.

"Very much, my lord."

He pressed his lips together. He knew no songs. "Perhaps a duet?"

She inclined her head. "Very well."

She launched once again into her uncertain tune, and this time he raised his voice along with hers, following her discordant notes up and down and to all beats in-between. Within seconds their mouths had stretched into smiles which were now impossible to deny. Moments later Kitty erupted into a peal of laughter, and he followed suit, holding onto the fireplace as his shoulders shook with merriment.

Kitty regained her composure first. "When did you hear me sing?" she asked, with such upfront honesty that Guy was taken aback.

"Here, in my solar," he answered promptly. "A few nights since."

She acknowledged the truth of it with a faint grimace. "Forgive me, my lord."

"There is nothing to forgive. The sound of your voice made me forget my troubles for a moment." There he was again, spilling the private truth of his heart to a woman he hardly knew.

She smiled but her eyes slid away from his. She was preparing to withdraw from him again. He could feel it in the air. Yet she hesitated for long enough to give proper consideration to his rash words. "My mother always said that was the power of singing. Of music."

A beat passed. "I believe your mother to be correct," he said quietly.

This was madness. To what end was he trying to prolong their conversation? She was his serving maid. He should dismiss her back below stairs. But once she had gone, he would be alone once again. Just him and his demons.

She swallowed, as if she too were aware of the rare closeness this moment had provided for them. "If my singing brought some respite from the pain of your injury, then I am glad of it."

He nodded curtly, reluctant even now to acknowledge that moment of vulnerability. She had seen him wracked with pain, barely able to stand. He had heard her sing. In this, they had shown one another glimpses of their true selves.

"Will you sing for me again?" he asked quickly, before he could think better of it. "With your true voice."

A glimmer of uncertainty passed over her green eyes. "Is that all you want from me?"

Another upfront question which startled him anew.

"Of course." He gave the assurance readily. He was not his uncle. He wouldn't impose himself on a servant, no matter how drawn he felt to this particular maid. He only wanted to sit for a moment and enjoy the unparalleled beauty of her singing.

True to his inner musings he withdrew from the fireplace and sat back in the chair.

She watched him quietly for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts, then she settled her cap more securely, lifted her chin and began to sing.

At once he was seized by the richness of the melody. Kitty's voice soared through the quiet room, a force of pure, unfiltered beauty and power. He was unfamiliar with the words, yet some jumped out at him, pulling him into those recesses of memory he was most fearful of exploring. She sang of hope and loss and love, and Guy found himself forced to remember his little brother. The joy of his laughter and the bitterness of his unnecessary passing. He was taken back to nights spent in the chilling cold of the battlefield, scanning the faces of the dead for friends. And simultaneously, to sources of unexpected happiness. The rosy dawn of a sunrise. Birdsong over a babbling brook. The warming glow of comradery.

When she finished, he found his eyes were wet with unshed tears. Tears he hastily blinked back. Kitty's song had left his emotions exposed. He longed for contact from another human soul. For the first time, he felt an urge to unburden himself. To vocalise his loneliness, his pain and his fears that he may never make it back to the service of the king.

His eyes met hers across the short distance of the room. He saw a faint flush rising to her porcelain cheeks and her chest rise and fall with a heightened heartbeat. Her womanly curves drew his attention. Such a generous bosom narrowing to a waist he could surely span with his hands.

Her lips parted. Lips that he could imagine pressing to his own. Confusion clouded her brow.

"Did my song not please you, my lord?"

How could he answer? Her song had wrung the life from him.

"It was very pleasant," he answered hoarsely. And he kicked himself for the anxiety coursing through her beautiful eyes. She had expected approval and he had provided none. She was still young enough to feel the sting of rejection.

He rubbed at his temple. She was young. And she was under his employ.

And he was not his uncle.

"Thank you, Kitty."

"You are most welcome, my lord."

As she bobbed into another small obeisance, he almost waved his hand and told her not to bother.

This woman, whoever she was, was no servant.

She went about the castle like a chambermaid yet she sang like an angel and spoke like a noblewoman. She was an enigma still. More so now than ever.

He rubbed at his temples again, weary with this ceaseless internal debate. How wonderful it would be to trust without first searching beneath the surface of things.

"Is there anything else, my lord?"

He glanced up to meet her level gaze. How could he question the motives of one so modest and lovely, with a voice surely gifted from above?

"Nothing else, Kitty. You may retire for the evening."

Did disappointment flash across her even features? Disappointment which he found mirrored in his own heart. Their stolen evening of irreverent gaiety was at an end.

She walked towards the doorway. In another moment she would be gone.

"Will you sing for me again? Tomorrow?" His voice rang through the solar. Too loud. Too eager.

She turned, unable to hide the pleasure in her eyes. She too must feel this connection between them. A connection he should sever at once, or else risk obtaining as grievous a reputation as the previous Earl of Rossfarne.

"I should be pleased to," she said simply.

At once his worries vanished. Kitty was no slattern. She wouldn't tell false tales of impropriety down in the servants' quarters. She would sing, and he would listen. For a short time, he would be released from the incessant weight of his burdens. What business was this of anyone else?

"Good night, Kitty."

She inclined her head. "Good night, my lord."

She took the life and buoyancy from the room with her. Guy sat for a moment and allowed the silence to wash over him. It had been a strange evening. Not what he had anticipated. But better. A thousand times more delightful.

Thomas had brought him a jug of fine mead some time earlier. Guy had imagined he might need it, but the mead had sat forgotten on a side table. Kitty's presence had been intoxicating enough. Now he poured himself a goblet and drank it down quickly. The taste was surprisingly good. He poured another, then stayed his hand. He must not drown his troubles in drink. He'd seen many a good knight wander down the road to ruin that way.

Far better to listen to a maid singing than to seek solace in a bottle.

He could think up a thousand arguments in its favour, but deep down he knew his request was wrong. It was wrong because he was drawn to Kitty. Heat traversed his loins at the sight of her. When she sang, it was as if he was gripped by a fever. She was a curious mix of young and wise, slender and curvaceous, modest and knowing. In another life he might have run his fingers through her rippling mane of fiery hair. Might have pressed his lips to hers and let his hand roam free over her long limbs. Seeking to bring her pleasure. Seeking to find his own.

He slammed the goblet onto the tray and wiped his lips. Was he becoming infected by his uncle's salacious spirit?

Kitty was a servant in his employ. Therefore, their union was an impossible dream. Guy would not become a man who preyed upon his household. It would be an abuse of power, and the very idea turned his stomach.

He would keep his distance, but her presence was vital to ensure his sanity in this claustrophobic space. Not for long, however. His wound was healing. The first stirrings of strength were returning to his left hand. He would oversee the necessary repairs to make the castle safe for the long winter months, then he would leave.

And the long summer nights ahead of him would be lightened by Kitty's sweet singing voice. Nothing more.

At last, a plan. His lively mind began to run through the necessary steps. He must find a stonemason to repair the gatehouse. But before that, he needed to establish exactly how low his uncle had allowed the coin chests to become. Distrust of the household, mixed with a fear of further bad news, had made him reluctant to investigate when he first arrived in Rossfarne, but now he knew the servants better. It was unlikely the stout cook would mount a heist against him. And as for bad news, it was better to know the worst than to live in fear and uncertainty.

The coin chests were secreted inside the well in the great hall, that much he knew. He would have Thomas bring them out tomorrow, together with any jewellery that had survived the reign of the old earl. Although Guy strongly suspected the old man would have squandered any pieces of value and lost the rest on loose women and gambling.

Guy left the solar and started ascending the stone stairs to his bedchamber, holding a candle in his good right hand to illuminate the way. The castle's silence was absolute. Most inhabitants were already asleep. But despite his intentions to go quietly, Guy cursed aloud at the thought of jewels and gambling.

He had forgotten the cloth bag of jewels taken from Owain the Drunkard. Jewels which he must return to the man's daughters.

He should never have taken them. Only misplaced pride and a determination to prove himself physically dominant, despite his injury, had carried him to the neglected manor to retrieve his ill-gotten winnings. That and ale. Too much of it. He had been twisted up with bitterness absorbed from his past, spiked with frustration following the theft of his own coin.

He must tread a different path if he didn't want to finish up the same way as his forefathers, despised by all who knew them.

But Shoreston Manor had seemed deserted when he rode over there the next day and he had no wish to waste another journey. Maybe one of the servants knew of Owain and his daughters?

He shouldered open the door to his bedchamber and placed the flickering candle on an oak chest. The castle servants kept themselves to themselves, rarely mingling with folk from the town of Rossfarne. But Kitty had travelled through the town recently, she may have heard something.

He would ask her tomorrow, he resolved, when she came to his solar.