The Rogue. Ana Seymour

was less harsh than it had been moments ago.

      “I’d never presume to do so,” he said softly. “They say the bond between sisters is a very special one.”

      His gentleness seemed to have some effect. Her eyes misted as she answered, “Aye. Though raised apart we were no less close.”

      For the first time her expression held more sadness than anger. It made her look softer. Nicholas felt a sudden urge to put his arms around her in comfort. Instead he said, “She often spoke of you, mistress, in the short time we had together.”

      Beatrice blinked back the threatening tears and looked as if she was about to make some reply when suddenly there were childish shouts in the distance. Her face blanched. “I must leave,” she said. Before Nicholas could protest, she’d whirled around and began running down the road.

      He watched her for a few moments, sorry that the sudden swell of emotion had made her flee just when it looked as if they might be able to heal some of the hard feeling between them. He’d made a start, he thought, uncertain as to why the idea gave him such satisfaction.

      Belatedly remembering his manners and the purpose of his visit, he turned back to the Fletchers’ cottage. Harold and Jannet were waiting for him, looking concerned.

      “It appears that ye’ve already made the acquaintance of Beatrice,” Harold said when Nicholas ducked his head under the lintel.

      “She’s less than fond of me, I fear. If you remember, Harold, I kept company with her sister, Flora, yjust before I left for the Crusades,” he explained. “I could scarce believe it when they told me of her death.”

      “It hit Beatrice hard,” Jannet said. Then her voice lightened as she added, “Well, now, here comes my baby boy.”

      She moved past Nicholas and held out her arms as a little bundle of arms and legs burst through the door and jumped into them.

      Harold laughed and said to Nicholas, “There he is, the little hedgehog.”

      Nicholas smiled at his friend’s obvious pride. “A fine boy,” he said, though in truth he could scarcely judge the squirming toddler who had nearly knocked his mother to the floor with his robust embrace.

      It was hard to believe that it was Harold’s son he was seeing, hard to countenance that the youth he’d played and fought and wooed with was now a serious man with a family.

      “Aye, and when does an old lady get the proper respects due from a rapscallion like yourself, Master Nicholas?” Enid’s voice sounded the same as the day he’d left. He turned to her with a grin.

      “If I see an old lady, I’ll consider it,” he shot back. “In the meantime, I intend to collect a hug from my Mama Enid.” He proceeded to do so, lifting her off the ground.

      “Put me down, Nicky. Ye’ll have this old back in pieces, ye will,” she protested with a pleased laugh.

      Nicholas’s plans to meet a number of the villagers that afternoon were curtailed as the Fletchers insisted that he stay for supper and get to know his namesake. Little Nick’s shyness with the big stranger lasted only for minutes. Soon he was climbing over Nicholas as readily as he did his own father. The two men took turns keeping the lively youngster entertained until the lad curled up next to the fire and went instantly to sleep.

      “You’ve worn him out, Harry,” Jannet remonstrated, but her voice was rich with affection. Harold reached for his wife’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. She rewarded him with a smile that had a hint of seduction at its depths. Nicholas imagined that when their child and Enid were sleeping up in the loft, Harold and Jannet made lusty use of the large pallet in the corner of the room. He felt a pang of envy.

      Growing up, the two boys had taken it for granted that Nicholas was the lucky one. He had the fine home, the opportunity to become a valiant knight, the chance to ride off and see the world. But at the moment, Nicholas thought to himself watching the satisfied look on his old friend’s face as he helped his wife lift a kettle off the fire, he’d willingly trade his knighthood and all his adventures abroad for the riches Harold had found.

      Nicholas knew from the pains his mother had taken preparing for the upcoming dinner that she was hoping that he would agree to Baron Hawse’s proposal and marry Winifred. After his visit to the Fletchers, there were moments when Nicholas found himself wondering if the idea had some merit.

      It would mean getting the Hendry estate back without a fight, and Winifred would probably give him little trouble as a wife. If she was too frail for the baser pleasures of matrimonial life, he knew he’d have no problem finding lustier partners in the vicinity. Though some of his former lovers were now, like Mollie, wives themselves, he’d already seen two girls in the village who had let him know that a resumption of their frolics would not be unwelcome.

      He sighed as he gave Scarab over to the stable lad and headed for the house. In truth, he’d been dreading this meal all week, and now that it was here he was still not ready to give the baron the answer he sought.

      His uncertainty had made him extend his afternoon ride beyond usual, and now he was late. Hawse and his daughter had arrived before him. Nicholas knew that the breach of etiquette had annoyed his mother, but there was no evidence of her disapproval in her smile of greeting. “Our guests are here, Nicholas,” she said calmly.

      The baron, Winifred and Constance were already seated at the table. Once again, Baron Hawse had taken the chair of the master of the household. Nicholas felt the anger he had kept in check for the past week rise to the surface again. He struggled to keep it hidden as he turned to Winifred and bent over her proffered hand.

      “Welcome to Hendry Hall, milady,” he said.

      Winifred’s eyes darted away from him. Her thin fingers were icy. He grasped her hand more firmly and rubbed it between both of his. “You’re freezing,” he said, frowning. He looked to the end of the room at the larger of the two fireplaces, then at his mother. “We need to get the servants to build up the fires.”

      The baron, who had not stood at Nicholas’s entry, said smoothly, “Sit down, lad. I’ve already ordered it. They’re bringing in more wood now.”

      Indeed, as he finished speaking, the big doors across the hall opened and four men entered, each carrying an armful of wood.

      “You can’t keep your dining hall like an ice house when there are delicate ladies present,” the baron said to Nicholas. “I’ve given orders that the fires are to be kept well stoked from now on.”

      Nicholas looked at his mother, who merely shrugged. Steaming, he took the seat next to Winifred, who blushed and shyly offered to share the trencher that had been placed in front of her.

      Nicholas scarcely tasted the food his mother had spent so much time planning. He was sitting in his home, at his table and yet he’d been made to feel as if he were some kind of schoolboy who was only playing host when the real master was gone. And not doing a very good job of it. Is this how things would be if he accepted the baron’s offer and became his son-in-law?

      Realizing that it was unfair to take his irritation out on poor Winifred, he made several attempts to engage her in conversation, but as before, she replied in a voice so soft that often he could not hear her, and she refused to meet his eyes.

      “Don’t they make a handsome couple?” the baron asked Constance in a loud voice, looking down the table at his daughter and Nicholas.

      “Aye, milord,” his mother answered dutifully.

      To Nicholas’s surprise, Winifred bit her lip and her brown eyes filled with tears. He leaned close to her and said in an undertone, “Pay him no mind. Neither you nor I are puppets to dance to your father’s strings.”

      She lifted her gaze to his face for a moment, and her eyes held unmistakable gratitude.

      That put a new perspective on things, he thought with some amusement. It appeared the baron’s daughter was no more eager for the proposed marriage than Nicholas.