Beryl entered the room and closed the door behind her, but it was not the Beryl Padraig had grown used to seeing every day in his chamber for the past two months, with her somber gray gown and her crisp white coif. This Beryl was wearing a fitted, peacock-blue kirtle with a saffron veil over loops of braids all around her head.
She stopped her approach halfway across the floor as her gaze met Padraig’s, and he realized she was taking his measure just as fully as he was taking hers. He’d never imagined her like this—her clothing matching her demeanor—and he was suddenly hesitant to speak to her.
And yet it was expected of him. Beryl herself had taught him that much.
And so he gave her a bow. “Good evening, Beryl.”
She dipped at once into a curtsy, inclining her head slightly. The gown seemed an extension of her grace, the veil a heralding banner of her exquisite presence.
“Good evening, Master Boyd. If it will not inconvenience you, I thought perhaps we might take the evening meal together. Lady Hargrave prefers me to sit elsewhere tonight.”
Get it right, get it right, Padraig told himself.
“It would honor me to receive you at my table,” he said, and her smile was all the answer he needed.
“Well done,” she said quietly. “You’ve surprised me again.”
“Wait ’til you see me with the salt cellar.”
“Very good,” Lucan interrupted, rather rudely in Padraig’s opinion. “Beryl shall be continuing her instruction of Master Boyd at the meal. Grand idea, although it is rather ill-mannered of her to invite herself. Actually—Rynn, Peter, Marta; I think all of you who have worked so closely with Master Boyd these past days shall join him. You’ve no other duties for the feast, and Master Boyd has a table of stations to fill. And Cletus—where is Cletus?”
“Here,” the sullen voice proclaimed from behind the screened corner where the chamber pot resided.
“Cletus, you shall be Master Boyd’s taster. Anything he desires for his trencher shall be first put to your tongue.”
“Aye, Sir Lucan.”
“The rest of you are dismissed until your evening duties.”
Padraig had heard the orders, had heard the other servants leaving the chamber, but he had been unable to tear his gaze from the vision standing in his chamber. She was so perfect—like a painted figure.
“You look lovely,” Padraig said without hesitation.
Was that a blush?
“That’s forward, Master Boyd. But thank you.”
“The gown?”
“Prying,” she answered in a singsong tone.
“It suits you,” he said, and it sounded so pitifully inadequate to describe her beauty.
She hesitated. “Your costume as well,” she said, and he thought there was genuine admiration in her voice. “Red is a strong color.”
“If I werena a strong man, I wouldna be here.” Did she perhaps think him handsome?
Lucan cleared his throat. “Beryl, a word, if you don’t mind?”
Padraig frowned and turned to face Lucan. “I’d nae have you speak to my staff without my presence, Lucan. I mean you nae offense. You have done me a great service, and I thank you. But unless this is a private matter between you and Beryl, would that you speak your mind before me. Her welfare is my responsibility, is it nae?”
The knight’s mouth quirked. “Master Boyd, I do find your recently acquired sense of responsibility rather annoying. But yes, you have every right to make that request.” He looked to Beryl. “Would you explain the change of seating this evening, Beryl?”
“Forgive me, Sir Lucan, but I do think you’ve forgotten your manners. Master Boyd might also desire to be informed that Lord and Lady Paget of Elsmire Tower are to be in attendance at the hunt.”
Padraig wasn’t certain how exactly Lucan had broken etiquette, but Beryl had put him in his place just as surely as if she had been the lady of the hold. He thought perhaps Lucan’s cool temper would flare, but he only gave her an indulgent smile—a lover’s smile?—before turning his attention to Padraig.
“Lord Adolphus Paget is well known to be one of the king’s patrons. His estate is one of the wealthiest of the borderlands, and yet his reputation is somewhat…unsavory, due to his habits and his many mistresses. Beryl was under the employ of Lady Paget at Elsmire Tower before her…stay in France.”
There it was again—a mention of Beryl in France, just as Searrach had said. Did it mean that the gossip about her was true? What other reason would a young woman have for leaving her English mistress to remain behind in France for a time, and then taking the employ of another household when she returned?
And why did it matter so much to Padraig? Perhaps it was because he could not imagine the proper beauty in such a position—unless she had become pregnant against her will. In which case her circumstances would be understandable.
Just the idea that Beryl had been set upon by such a man was enough to cloud his thinking with rage. Had Lord Paget been her lover?
He met Beryl’s gaze. “Did you run away from—what is it? Elsmire?”
“I did not.”
“So Lady Paget knows you are here. And you have no wish to see her?”
“I do not, Master Boyd,” she affirmed stiffly. It was a marked change in her demeanor from a moment earlier, and Padraig did not care for it. He liked to see Beryl smiling, or perhaps flustered and blushing under his attention.
So although he wanted to press her, and he thought that she would answer him if he did, he would not demand of her what she did not wish to willingly supply. For now, all that mattered was that she would be sitting at his side tonight.
“Well, then.” Padraig closed the distance between them, gave her a bow, and then offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She laid her palm atop his forearm as they had practiced a hundred times in this very room, but standing in his fine suit of clothes, looking down at the woman dressed as she deserved to be, he stood even taller. As they walked
