The Rogue. Ana Seymour

about their heads as well.”

      “The Crusades taught me many things, Mother. You’ll not find me the reckless philanderer who fled here four years ago. I’ve grown up.”

      “I’m glad to hear it.” The firelight caught the brightening of her eyes.

      “But the Crusades also taught me to fight my own battles. Hendry Hall belongs to me, in spite of the documents my father signed.” He rubbed his thigh where the old wound nagged.

      “The baron will be here on the morrow,” his mother said. “He has made no move to implement the change in title, and has promised not to act until the mourning year is over. Mayhap we can come to a peaceful resolution.”

      “Mayhap.” He bent to plant a kiss on the top of his mother’s head. “Don’t fret yourself, Mother. You’ve had too many worries since my father’s death. Now that I’m home, I’d see the smile back on your face.”

      She obliged him with the broadest smile she’d given since he had arrived on the previous day. “My prayers have been answered by your return, my son.”

      He turned to leave, moving gingerly as the feeling came slowly back into his leg. As he reached to open the door, he was startled by a knock that sounded from the other side. He pulled it open to reveal his mother’s handmaid.

      The girl was breathing heavily, evidently having just run up the steep stairway to the upstairs bedchambers. “Visitor’s awaiting, Master Nicholas,” she puffed.

      Nicholas looked back at his mother. “I thought you said the baron was coming tomorrow.”

      “’Tis not Baron Hawse,” the girl said. “’Tis a lady. Not a fine one, but not common neither.”

      “One of your former admirers, no doubt, son,” said Constance with an air of resignation. “I thought it would not take them long to discover your return.”

      Nicholas frowned and turned to follow the servant girl downstairs.

      Chapter Two

      The news that had awaited him upon his arrival home had almost made him forget the incident at the Gilded Boar Inn. But even before he entered the great hall and saw the tall woman waiting for him at the opposite end of the hall, he somehow suspected that his surprise visitor might be her.

      Oddly enough, the thought rather pleased him. For one thing, it would give him the opportunity to solve the mystery of her dramatic response to his visit to the inn the previous noon.

      She looked up as he approached. Once again, her eyes were like skewers. However, this time he had ample opportunity to observe that they were also handsome, as was the rest of her. “Mistress,” he said in acknowledgement. When she didn’t speak at once, he decided to be direct. “You have the advantage of me. You seem to know who I am, but I remain in ignorance of your identity.”

      Her chin went up a notch. “I did not come here to make your acquaintance,” she said.

      Her voice was musical, he noted, in spite of the frost. “Then you admit that we are not acquainted, mistress. Yet it appears that you must bear me some ill will.” He rubbed a hand across his chin. “I’m quite sure that when I left this country ’twas not the custom to greet perfect strangers by expectorating in their faces.”

      Beatrice felt unexpectedly shaky. She hadn’t thought it would be this difficult to face the monster. Her father had argued against this visit, and perhaps she should have paid him heed. But she had a reason for wanting to be sure that Nicholas Hendry would never again set foot anywhere near the Gilded Boar. The sudden memory of little Owen strengthened her resolve.

      “The gesture was spontaneous,” she said. “But I offer no apology. And you may believe that the sentiment behind it was genuine.”

      Nicholas’s dark eyes warmed to the edge of a smile. “I believe you, mistress.”

      His lack of anger made her task more difficult. “Be that as it may, I’ve come to be sure that the message was received.”

      Nicholas merely tipped his head, questioning.

      “You’re not welcome at the Boar,” Beatrice continued.

      Now he frowned. “Who are you, mistress? And how is it that you are warning me away from an inn that, if I calculate correctly, is on lands leased from this very estate?”

      Beatrice felt her face grow warm. If she were to accomplish her mission, she had to tell him that much. “The master of the inn, Phillip Thibault, is my father.”

      Nicholas blinked as though a sudden memory had shifted in the back of his head. “You’re not Flora,” he said, his voice low.

      “So you do remember her?”

      “Aye. The brewer’s daughter, Flora. But you are not she.”

      “Flora was my sister.” Her voice held steady.

      “Was?” He looked stricken. She’d give him that much, at least.

      “Flora’s dead these three years past.”

      Nicholas looked down. “It grieves me to hear it.” Lifting his eyes to his visitor’s face, he asked, “What happened to her?”

      Beatrice swallowed the lump that threatened to erupt from her throat. It was anger she wanted to show this man, not grief. “You killed her,” she said finally.

      Nicholas’s shock was more acute than on their earlier encounter when she had spit at him. He remembered sweet Flora vividly. She’d been his last light o’ love before he’d set out on the Crusade. They’d had but a few short meetings before he had to take leave of her. He remembered her tender farewell, had tasted her tears all the way across the Channel.

      You killed her, the woman had said, hate dripping with each word. He shook his head to clear it, and felt the beginning of anger. He may have taken unfair advantage of Flora Thibault, as he had too many other women in those wild days. But he’d never harmed her, of that he was certain.

      “She was in perfect health when I left England,” he said stiffly.

      “She died of a broken heart.”

      Nicholas shook his head. Broken hearts were the stuff of minstrel songs. People did not die of them. Perhaps this woman, however intelligent she appeared, was of weak mind. The notion made him speak more gently. “Flora knew from the onset that our time together would be short. I can’t believe that my departure caused her such distress.”

      “If you’d truly known my sister, you would have seen that she was in love with you.”

      “We loved each other, Mistress Thibault, but we both knew ’twas a fleeting pleasure. I swear your sister understood this as well as I.”

      “Yet she is dead,” Beatrice said, delivering each word as if it were a judge’s sentence.

      “Did she have no disease, no wound?”

      Beatrice ignored his question and continued in her deliberate tone. “I can do nothing to prove you accountable, Master Hendry, but listen well. I’ve come to ask you civilly to honor my father’s grief and my own. Do not show your face anywhere near the Gilded Boar.”

      “I’d speak with your father, mistress. I want—”

      Beatrice held up a hand to stop his speech. “We have many friends in the village, sir. If you’ll not heed my words, you might find your welcome home much less warm than you had hoped.”

      Nicholas shook his head in wonderment. What kind of woman was this to come threatening the master of the estate, ordering him to stay off a portion of his own property? Or what should be his property, he amended. Perhaps it was already known throughout the territory that Baron Hawse was the new master at Hendry.

      He took a long moment to consider his reply. Finally