Did he know nothing of how to behave?
“Nae,” he said. “She’ll do.”
Lucan closed the spare distance separating him from Padraig Boyd, and Beryl watched them closely, although she could not hear the terse tones exchanged between the two. After a moment Lucan turned once more toward the dais, and the rigid expression on his handsome features was one she well recognized.
“Master Boyd insists, my lady,” he said through obviously clenched teeth. “He has need of a woman servant.”
“I have little care for his insistence,” Caris said wonderingly. “And my lord husband has already given him a wench from his own…tribe. Regardless of Master Boyd’s alleged claim to this hold, Beryl is mine. And I shall not turn her over to…to such a base stranger to be abused.”
Warm affection for the woman bloomed anew in Beryl’s chest and her eyes prickled with grateful tears.
“Montague, you are upsetting my wife,” Lord Hargrave warned.
“That is not at all my intention, my lord,” Lucan replied, and Beryl could sense the strained patience in his tone. “If I may speak with candor, I have advised Master Boyd that he may be better served by individuals who perhaps”—here Lucan looked directly at Beryl, and his accusation was loud, even if Beryl was the only one who could hear it—“do not hold such loyalty to your family.”
Beryl looked at the nobleman from the corner of her eye and saw his brow raise. “Indeed.”
“The answer is no,” Caris Hargrave interjected.
It seemed as though everyone’s gaze now turned to the Scotsman standing like an oak in the center of the hall. Patient. Immovable. He shook his head again.
“’Tis her I’ll be having,” he said. “Else I’ll take my grievance and proof of my claim to the king’s court myself.”
Hargrave laughed. “You can’t do that, you buffoon. He’ll have you thrown in jail.”
“Let’s just see if he doos, then,” Padraig Boyd answered curiously and then turned on his heel and strode toward the doorway of the hall. The echoes of his footfalls dying away were the only sounds in the cavernous space for a pair of moments.
“What proof does this fool think he has against me, Montague?” Lord Hargrave demanded suddenly.
Lucan’s face was stony, and he didn’t so much as twitch to go after the vanished Scotsman. “I don’t know, my lord. Regardless, Henry will be much displeased with us all at having his very clear commands disobeyed when he has already set aside his schedule for the business of Darlyrede House.”
“Fool,” Hargrave muttered again. He rubbed his lips in an agitated fashion with his fingertips and glanced at his wife, who appeared to Beryl to be not at all concerned with this turn of events.
Then the old nobleman let out a string of whispered curses. “Very well,” he said smoothly at last, obviously recovered of his composure. “Go fetch your beggar pet. If I can spare the king any upset, we shall all endure for his sake.”
“My lord,” Caris whispered, “I will not allow it.”
“Only for a short time, my dear,” Lord Hargrave soothed. His gaze flicked to Lucan. “Go on, before he escapes us.”
The hair on Beryl’s neck rose at the phrase.
Lady Hargrave’s chair legs screeched against the wood as she gained her feet, her pale, frail fingertips on the tabletop holding her steady.
“No!” she shouted. “No, I say! I need her—she shall not be some…some pawn,” Caris gasped, and Beryl could see the woman’s veins standing out on her fragile neck, could see the trembling of her whole person.
“My lady.” Beryl rose and pinched a fold of the woman’s fine sleeve. “Please, be not distressed on my account.”
The woman flung off her touch with a wild motion that caused her to sway. “You will not go against my wishes!” Her voice was thin, raspy in her passion. “Lord Hargrave! I shall die!” The woman’s knees buckled, and Beryl caught her mistress in her arms, lowering her back into the chair.
“My lady, I beg of you,” Beryl whispered, patting the woman’s arm, her hair, fanning her with her hand. “Calm yourself. I can perform both duties, I swear it. I’ll not leave you. I shall be at your chamber every night, as always. Everything shall be as it is now. I swear it. Please.” Beryl’s voice broke on her plea. If the woman worked herself in to apoplexy, died on Beryl’s behalf after all that she had already endured, Beryl would never forgive herself.
She would never forgive Lucan, or Padraig Boyd, whoever he revealed himself to be.
“We have little choice, my dear,” Vaughn Hargrave said in a sinister voice. “We must bear it until we can be rid of him. I would not ask it of you if it weren’t necessary.”
“You ask me nothing,” Caris rasped. “You do things without my knowledge. I know it.” Her breathy words trembled and broke.
Beryl’s eyes widened, but she dared not lift her gaze to look upon Lord Hargrave. She had never heard his wife speak in such a way to him directly, and the undercurrent of her statement was deep and dark and swift.
“You mustn’t think such things of me, my dear,” Lord Hargrave warned quietly.
Beryl’s heart pounded as she dared intervene. “Everything shall be as it has always been,” she repeated. “Please, my lady. I will take care of you.”
Commotion in the hall signaled that Lucan had successfully located his prey, but Beryl did not give them the consideration of her attention, for Caris Hargrave at last turned her face toward Beryl, the motion so slow that it seemed as though it must have taken every drop of strength left in the frail woman’s body. Painful uncertainty filled her eyes. And fear. She was afraid.
“He’ll take you from me, too,” she breathed, her head on Beryl’s shoulder, her mouth by her ear.
Beryl’s heart pounded as she shook her head. “Never,” she whispered down.
The hand on her arm tightened.
Lord Hargrave’s hateful voice called out, “Now that you have sent my wife into distress
