The Bride Of Windermere. Margo Maguire

more closely, and quite disapprovingly at Kit now. “But my lady—”

      “Please do as I say. My cousin is very ill, and I must get her settled and see to her well-being.” Moving quickly down a dark hall, the group finally reached the chamber that Kit was to share with Bridget. Mistress Hanchaw pointed out the rooms across the corridor which Gerhart and Nicholas would share, then turned back to open the door to Kit’s chamber.

      It was dark and gloomy, with shuttered windows, thus the only light in the room emanated from two candelabra on the chest, which Nicholas and the housekeeper proceeded to light. Gerhart lay Bridget gently on the thick velvet coverlet of the bed which was also heavily laden with dark velvet curtains. Her wheeze was worse now, between bouts of coughing spells, and Kit was anxious to do something for her. She placed cushions under Bridget’s back to prop her up and ease her breathing.

      “I think she should have starwort and yarrow, myself,” the housekeeper announced after Bridget quieted for a moment.

      “Madam, the request was clear, was it not?” The impatience and hostility in Gerhart’s tone was unmistakable now. Kit was thankful that he intervened again, since his intimidating tone had an immediate effect on the woman. The housekeeper turned and left quickly. When she was gone, Kit wondered anew what it was about the place that made Gerhart so antagonistic. While she had already noticed he didn’t possess the most affable of temperaments, she had yet to see him behave unjustly.

      “My thanks, sir,” she said to him.

      He barely nodded, acknowledging her thanks. There was a disturbing depth, an almost haunted look, in his eyes.

      “The nurse is your cousin?” he asked, and Kit’s fleeting impression of a man tormented disintegrated with his words. In his place was a powerful man, coolly controlled.

      “Well, yes. Distant, though. She is...a gentlewoman.” Her voice faltered as the full effect of his altered gaze slammed through her. She glanced down at his lips as he spoke and recalled the heat and taste of his mouth. His presence suddenly flustered her. He was so very appealing, and he had come to Bridget’s aid with such ease. “She is my...my mother’s second cousin. A Cochran of County Louth...”

      “Hold,” he raised a hand to stop her. “I daresay I know more of your family than I could ever wish to.”

      Nicholas saw the flash of anger in Kathryn’s eyes. “Can you manage on your own now, Lady Kathryn?” he quickly interjected.

      Kit damned Wolf silently for making her feel like a child and turned to speak to Nicholas. “Yes. Of course.”

      “Then until later, my lady...” Nicholas left her with Bridget to go seek out his own quarters. Wolf was already gone.

      The gardener came up along with the local priest who dabbled in herbology. The two decided on a decoction of iris root and willow bark, which they gave Bridget along with several of Father Fowler’s best blessings and prayers for a speedy recovery. Since their prescription did not differ much from what Kit had planned to give Bridget, she allowed them to proceed without interference. Who could tell? Perhaps the priest’s prayers would do her more good than the medicinal powders.

      The two men had scarcely left when servants arrived with buckets of hot water which they poured into a stout wooden tub. The younger one, a dark-haired girl, added wood to the fire and fanned it, bringing up a cozy flame.

      “’Tis a mite cold,” she said, glancing over at Bridget, asleep in the big bed. “We’ll keep it nice ’n toasty for the lady there... get the damp out.”

      “Thank you.” Kit took off her hat and began to loosen her hair from its long, confining braid.

      “There’s a special banquet planned for this evenin‘, milady,” the dark-haired girl said. “I doubt Mistress Hanchaw could be bothered to tell—”

      “Maggie!” the older girl cried. “‘Twill never do for ye to be tellin’ tales about the mistress. Of course she was goin’ to tell the lady.”

      Maggie snorted.

      “Well, she was, I tell ye.”

      “Annie, you know as well as I, nothin’ that wily witch likes better than to watch a sweet lady squirm.” Maggie poured a pail of hot water into the tub. “Remember how she baited Lady Clarisse—”

      “Hold yer tongue, ye fool! Or yer blathering’ll get you set out but good! And me as well!”

      “As I was sayin‘, milady.” Maggie turned back to Kit with great dignity, ignoring the other girl. “There’s to be a grand celebration tonight for the beginning of the fair. It opens tomorrow in Windermere town, and all the barons and squires from hereabouts will be attending. All their ladies, too, so you’ll want to be at your best.”

      Annie started to gather up the linens they were meant to deliver to the other Windermere guests. “Tall Lawrence will fetch ye for supper—”

      “’Tis a shame about your eye,” Maggie said, lingering, studying Kit’s face. “All green and yellow now. No way to conceal it, I don’t suppose...”

      Kit shook her head and sent the maids on their way with assurances that she could manage her bath alone. There were certainly more pressing matters for them to attend to, if there were guests at the castle.

      Bridget was breathing easily and regularly, soundly asleep. Kit eased herself back into the hot water and washed away the grit and grime of her journey, thinking of the two maids and their argument.

      Kit wondered who Lady Clarisse was, and why Maggie’s words had upset Annie so. This was a strange place, this Windermere Castle. Kit thought it even stranger than Somerton Manor where Lord Somers spent his days in a drunken haze while his wife bedded every neighbor and visitor who passed through. At least at Somerton, a person knew her status—or lack of it.

      Even Wolf had seemed to quickly gain an understanding of the situation at Somerton. His distaste for Kit’s stepfather was quite clear, and his disgust at Lady Edith’s infernal flirting was obvious.

      It should have been easy to relax in the tub after her days in the saddle, yet thoughts of the taciturn Wolf plagued her: the way he could make her melt with just a glance of those intent gray eyes, then turn around and use words that made her feel like a child, chastised, castigated, effectively put into place.

      She wondered what would happen if he discovered she was the one at the lake. She’d wager her boots he wouldn’t call her “Sprout” again.

      How could he do this to her? Gerhart made her so confused, she could just kick something. He was a tyrant who treated her like a child and even had the gall to call her “Sprout.” She had no use for such a man as Wolf. She had Rupert.

      Rupert, who was never overbearing. He was easygoing and fun and always smiling. He never frowned or scowled the way this Gerhart-Wolf did. Rupert had known her for so many years, he’d be satisfied with her, even though she lacked the sophistication of court. Besides, Kit had loved Rupert for years and as soon as she arrived in London, she would find him and marry him. This marriage was what she’d planned, what had kept her sane while she waited for him to come for her at Somerton. And nothing could change that.

      It was some time later, as she sat in front of the fire drying her hair, that Bridget awoke. “How do you feel, old friend?” Kit asked.

      “As though Edmond Grindcob’s huge cow Mathilda had sat on my chest.”

      Kit laughed. “And well you should. You have a terrible hack and a wheeze as well. But we shall have you cured before long.”

      “What did those old goats give me?”

      “Nothing I wouldn’t have given you myself.”

      “Good. Don’t let ‘em near me without ye,” she wheezed.

      “I wouldn’t, ever.”

      “Sure and I know ye wouldn’t, Kitty. Come sit by me.” Bridget patted