“Ah, you at last grace us with your presence, Lucan,” a voice called out in a mocking tone, drawing Padraig’s attention to a table on a raised dais near the hearth. At his side was seated a ghost of a woman, paler than snow, her dark hair swooping away from either side of her face like the heavy-looking draperies at the long, narrow windows. Her eyes were hollow, dark, haunted. The Lady Hargrave, she must be. And at her side was the only other person in the chamber save Hargrave whom Padraig recognized.
She would not look at him.
Lucan Montague gave a shallow bow. “Lord Hargrave.”
The older man’s steely gaze swung to Padraig, and his face was expectant.
“I’ll nae bow to you, if that’s what you’re waiting for. You’re nae lord o’ mine.”
Hargrave’s brow rose. “My, my. Defensive at the start, are we not, Master Boyd? It’s only common courtesy to pay respect to one’s host when one is a guest. Especially when they are your better. But I suppose I shouldn’t be overly expectant of a show of manners from one seemingly raised in the wild.”
Padraig’s pride burned at being so blatantly insulted before the beautiful woman who as yet refused to acknowledge his presence. “I’m nae your guest, Hargrave. Darlyrede belongs to my father.”
“Back to that, are we? Well, I confess I’m not really surprised. The jingle of a purse tends to bring out all manner of beggars from the cracks.”
“You—” Padraig began, but Montague turned quickly and stepped between Padraig and the hall, effectively blocking his view.
“Stop,” he commanded in a low voice. “He’s baiting you before everyone gathered and you’re playing right into his hands. Stop, before he turns you into a fool. I assure you, he will.” Lucan turned. “Gentlemen, may I remind you that there will be a time and a place to present your cases before the king? We have gathered this morning to do no more than determine the division of the hold.”
“Gentlemen—ha! Ah, well—the voice of reason, as always, Lucan,” Hargrave condescended, but Padraig could tell by the man’s smug expression that he felt he had already scored a point. “You will be happy to know that while we were waiting interminably for your arrival, I chose a suitable staff for your ambitious indigent.” He waved a hand toward a nearby table, and a trio of brawny and scowling men stood from the benches.
“You should be quite pleased.” Hargrave smirked. “They are most suitable to your…specific needs.”
“Thank you, Lord Hargrave,” Lucan said. “We shall certainly begin with these three.”
“Oh, they’re all I can spare, I’m afraid.”
“Master Boyd shall require personal attendants for his chambers. I do doubt any of these lads has experience as a chambermaid.”
“I can throw out me own piss,” Padraig muttered.
“Very well,” Hargrave agreed quickly. Too quickly, in Padraig’s mind. “Searrach?”
A raven-haired woman seated at a table near the first six men rose. She was shapely of body, but her features were sharp. “Aye, milord.”
“Are you amenable to serving our guest for the remainder of his—very brief, I’m certain—stay?”
“As you wish, Lord Hargrave.”
Padraig felt his eyebrows raise. The woman was a Scot.
Hargrave looked back to Lucan, a thin smile on his face. “There you are. Happy now?”
Padraig suspected he was the only person in the chamber to hear Montague’s curt sigh before he strode through the hall, weaving between the tables and benches. He stopped in the center of the gathering, turning in a slow circle.
“You,” he said, pointing to a large, somber-looking young man. “And you, there. Yes. You, mistress—is that your daughter with you? Very good; the pair of you, if you please. You, and…also you.”
Now Lucan looked back to Hargrave. “That should be a sufficient number for now. I reserve the right to reevaluate in the coming days once Master Boyd becomes settled.”
“You reserve the—?” Hargrave grasped both arms of his chair and leaned forward with an incredulous expression. And then he laughed.
“Wait,” Padraig interjected, crossing the floor to where Lucan stood and drawing the attention of all in the hall. He cleared his throat. “I’d have my say.”
Lucan Montague fixed Padraig with a glare full of daggers.
Padraig ignored him, turning toward the dais fully and pointing toward the woman sitting rigid as a post next to Lady Hargrave. Her gaze seemed fixed on some point away from where Padraig stood at Montague’s side.
In the daylight of the hall, Padraig knew she was the most beautiful woman he’d had ever seen. Quite possibly the most beautiful woman in all the world.
She would give him her attention now.
“Her,” he said clearly. “Beryl, you called her. I want her.”
* * * *
Beryl raised her head so quickly the bones in her neck crackled. She knew her eyes were too wide, her expression full of shocked abhorrence.
“What?” she blurted out and then looked quickly to Caris Hargrave. “My lady,” she pleaded quietly.
But Lady Hargrave was already smiling serenely and laid a cool, comforting hand on her arm, even as she spoke toward the hall in her soothing, melodic voice.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, my dear Lucan. Beryl is wholly a lady’s maid, and her duties are such that I simply cannot do without her. I’m sure you understand.”
Beryl silently let out the breath she’d been holding.
Lucan nodded deferentially. “Of course, my lady. Perhaps someone else, Master Boyd,” he suggested.
But the Scotsman was already shaking his head. He crossed his arms over his wide chest, and Beryl noticed then that his hair was curling over his shoulders, his eyes sparkling as they continued to look upon her boldly. He’d had a bath at least, if not a change of clothes. The way he pinned her with his gaze was offensive—that could be the only reason her heart was beating
