Norwyck's Lady. Margo Maguire

he approached her.

      “Tell me what you recall of the storm and the ship you were on.”

      “Naught, my lord,” she said. “But I dreamed while I slept this afternoon. That I was drowning.”

      Which revealed exactly nothing. Bart gazed into those pale green eyes and sought the truth. She appeared to be naught but a guileless maiden, yet he knew better than to trust appearances. His innocent Felicia had duped not only him, but William and Sir Walter, as well.

      “That’s all?” he asked coolly.

      “Nay,” she replied. “I saw faces…the same faces that appear in my mind sometimes while I’m awake. Yet I have no idea who they are.”

      “Very convenient for you.”

      “I—I do not understand why you should mistrust me so, my lord,” she said, clearly unnerved by his proximity. He moved even closer. He would frighten the truth out of her if necessary. “I have naught to gain by feigning this malady.”

      “Nay?” he said as he closed the distance between them. “Then you have no allegiance to Laird Armstrong or his ally, Carmag MacEwen?” he asked quietly. His face was a mere breath away from hers. Another inch and his chest would touch her breast.

      “These names mean naught to me,” she whispered.

      He was close enough to kiss her, and every muscle and sinew of his body urged him to abandon his questions and do so. He tipped his head and leaned forward, intent upon tasting her. His eyelids lowered slightly.

      The chamber door burst open with a crash, spilling argumentative children into the room. Bartholomew raised his head and, with a calm he did not feel, turned to look at the intruders, his young siblings.

      “Eleanor. Kate,” he said, enunciating each name carefully. He crossed his arms over his chest and willed his pulse to slow as Eleanor ran to him. “What is the purpose of this intrusion?”

      “She does not mind me, Bartholomew,” Kathryn began. She cast a scathing look at her sister, who now clung to Bart’s legs.

      “I tried to stop them, Bart,” John said sheepishly. “I never intended for them to bring their argument all the way up here.”

      “Where is your nurse?” Bart asked.

      “We have no need of a nurse, Bartholomew!” Kate declared, placing her hands upon her hips. She had become a rigid little tyrant in the past few months, often resorting to tears when she did not get her way. Bart had hoped she would ease back into childhood, now that the worst seemed to be in the past, but it was clear he would have to deal with her.

      Yet how would he go about it? She might have recovered from the death of their father, but for Felicia and William to have followed within the year—well, ’twas too much for the child.

      “Ellie,” he said, turning his sister loose from his legs. “Can you not listen to Kate when she speaks to you?”

      “Nay, Bartie! I don’t want to!”

      Obviously. “Eleanor, Kathryn has only your—”

      “She is a bully!” Ellie cried. “She thinks she is Mama, or Papa, but she’s not!”

      Kathryn screeched and lunged for Eleanor, but John held her back. Bartholomew pushed Eleanor behind him.

      “Kate, I will see you in the nursery momentarily,” he said, averse to continuing such a display before Marguerite. “John, will you see that she gets there?”

      “Aye,” John replied, his voice sounding odd.

      “But—” Kathryn began.

      “I will speak to you downstairs,” Bart said firmly, and John pulled his sister’s arm and drew her out of the tower chamber. “And you…” He crouched down to look Eleanor in the eye. “You must stop giving your sister so much trouble. She’s only trying to look after you.”

      “She doesn’t need to,” Ellie said, looking down at the floor and pushing out her lower lip. “She’s not my mama or my nurse. Besides, I’m big now. I can look after myself.”

      The child’s head barely reached his waist, yet she thought she was big. He’d have laughed aloud if Lady Marguerite had not been there to witness it.

      He took Eleanor by the shoulders, turned her around and gently pushed her toward the door. When he saw that she’d gone down the first few steps, he turned back to Marguerite. “Do not think that I’ve finished with you.”

      He followed his sister out of the room, closing the door behind him. Marguerite picked up the shawl and drew it ’round her shoulders, then collapsed in a chair near the fire. Confusion prevailed in her mind. Between the images of vaguely familiar people and places, and Bartholomew Holton’s formidable presence, she could not sort through her thoughts in any coherent manner.

      She knew she should be frightened of the overtly hostile earl. She trembled in his presence and her heart pounded so loudly she believed he might even hear it. Yet her reaction was not one of fear. ’Twas one of…fascination.

      She was attracted to the man.

      Marguerite slid her lower lip through her teeth and frowned in consternation. She’d been the victim of his animosity ever since awakening to this nightmare of doubt and confusion, yet she knew he was not inherently wicked or mean. His demeanor toward his sisters had made that abundantly clear. Though he nearly managed to hide it, his tender feelings for the little girls showed every time they appeared.

      His loathing was directed solely at her. And she did not understand why.

      Marguerite drew her legs up under her, vowing that until she had a better grasp of her situation and why Bartholomew Holton was so antagonistic toward her, there would be no softening of her heart toward him.

      Chapter Four

      Morning dawned bright and sunny. Marguerite gazed out the window of her chamber and realized that her vision was completely clear. She could see a vast expanse of sandy beach, and make out several gulls flying high above the waves.

      She sent a silent prayer of thanks that her vision had been restored. Now if only her memory would return…

      On the opposite wall, another window overlooked a courtyard. Marguerite crossed the room and gazed down, anxious to see if all was clear there, too.

      She saw a number of Norwyck’s knights on a practice field beyond the courtyard, engaged in swordplay. Several of the men were on horseback, and one in particular worked at a quintain at the opposite end of the courtyard. His movements were powerful, yet agile, striking quickly and mightily, then ducking the reprisal.

      Marguerite knew at once that this man, wearing naught but a light undertunic that was damp with his exertions, was Bartholomew Holton. His hair was bound at his nape, and she sensed without seeing that his facial expression would be fierce.

      A shudder ran through her and she whirled away from the window. Her unruly response to the young lord was unacceptable. The man had no liking for her, and she had no business having the kind of reaction he kindled in her. Besides, ’twas entirely possible she had her own young man or a husband waiting somewhere for her. Mayhap even children.

      The thought of children gave her pause. Marguerite ran her hands down her bodice, across her breasts and to her belly. Had an infant once nestled in her womb? Suckled at her breast?

      She did not think so, though she could not be certain. The children whose faces came to her at odd times must have some significance to her. Who were they? Why did she see them every time she closed her eyes?

      Rather than dwell on a puzzle that served only to upset her, Marguerite pressed one hand to her heart and turned her attention elsewhere. She let her gaze alight upon the furnishings of the circular room.

      The bed, she already knew, was a comfortable