скачать книгу бесплатно
A Wager for the Widow
Elisabeth Hobbes
‘I SUPPOSE A KISS OF GRATITUDE IS OUT OF THE QUESTION?’Widowed Lady Eleanor Peyton has chosen a life of independence. Living alone on her rocky coastal outcrop, she’s cut herself off from the world of men – until William Rudhale saves her life and demands a kiss!As steward to Lady Eleanor’s father, Will knows the desire he burns with is futile – but he’ll still wager he can claim Eleanor’s kiss by midwinter! Yet when the tide turns Will realises vulnerable Eleanor is far too precious to gamble with. Can he win his lady before it’s too late?
‘You say you know how to use your dagger? Then defend yourself, my lady,’ William said, his voice deathly quiet.
He took a step away from Eleanor and turned his back on her. She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but with a speed that took her by surprise William twisted the sword about his wrist and spun round.
Before Eleanor could react William had the sword held full at arm’s length, pointing at her breast. The tip was barely a hand’s breadth from touching her dress. The words died on Eleanor’s lips and the only sound that came out of her mouth was a soft whimper. Her head jerked up in shock and she discovered William watching her intently, his face fiercer and more determined than she had ever seen him look.
AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_b94d32c3-4fc4-5b06-b415-7bd4f8c49d7c)
A widow in the Middle Ages was in a better position than most women. While there was pressure—either to remarry or enter a convent—a widow had a degree of independence unavailable to wives and daughters and was able to run her own affairs, often carrying on with the businesses left by her husband and acting as guardian of his estate until any children came of age.
The only real person mentioned in this story is John Fortin, a merchant who traded with Bordeaux in the late 1290s. He might have been generous enough to allow others to invest in his ventures, but whether he did or not the wine trade out of Bristol flourished from this period onwards and was a great opportunity for those with the finances available to make their fortunes.
A few inspirations helped me get into Will and Eleanor’s minds. This quote by Giacomo Casanova was one: ‘A girl who is pretty and good, and as virtuous as you please, ought not to take it ill that a man, carried away by her charms, should set himself to the task of making their conquest.’
‘Thunder Road’ by Bruce Springsteen was also playing in the background when I wrote, and on the journey to and from work while I did a lot of my thinking.
For readers wishing to search online for locations, or visit them, Eleanor’s house is heavily modelled on St Michael’s Mount, but also owes some influence to Lindisfarne Castle on Holy Island. Sir Edgar’s fortified house is based on Ightham Mote in Kent and Stokesay Castle in Shropshire.
A Wager
for the Widow
Elisabeth Hobbes
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ELISABETH HOBBES grew up in York, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabeth’s hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencing—none of which has made it into a story yet. When she isn’t writing she spends her time reading, and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire with her husband, two children, and three cats with ridiculous names.
To my mum, who inspired a love of reading and history and who took me round castles as a child.
Contents
Cover (#u20441d55-b75b-5bb3-b232-e7860ebf8a01)
Introduction (#u7958ef8f-ee9a-5421-b33b-7692492332dc)
AUTHOR NOTE (#u659fd1dc-21fb-597a-80f7-54e023eba21d)
Title Page (#uf333e97e-f53c-50a9-b028-81506810eb39)
About the Author (#u77c71c26-c2d6-5cda-8ad9-3d857aeba49d)
Dedication (#uaaff342a-1159-55d1-aab0-09c407e1cd3a)
Chapter One (#u78ba0b74-b039-5c9a-9bcb-7a7a4c8b1f2c)
Chapter Two (#uf50229f6-e8a0-51c9-b972-0d4c7ffb8d1b)
Chapter Three (#u219bb85f-456d-559c-b7ce-08e60a6f9368)
Chapter Four (#ua8a660f9-156a-5ffe-b758-cc7fef469206)
Chapter Five (#u4924ddbd-4fd6-5643-b4d7-b4e4693ee2a7)
Chapter Six (#u5fd9c9fb-9033-5b23-b740-74c36e21c957)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_39eac94c-cdf8-537d-bec3-fc3fc81ad4e1)
Eleanor Peyton was never certain what was worse: the dreams where her husband died, or the ones where he was still alive. The former were always the same: Eleanor would stand and watch as though she was carved from granite, unable to move while Sir Baldwin clawed helplessly at his throat, sliding to the floor of the feasting hall. The screams of their wedding guests would ring in Eleanor’s ears and she would wake sobbing and shaking.
Tonight’s dream was the latter type. Eleanor could almost feel Baldwin’s breath on her face as he drew her close for a kiss, his brown eyes filled with a warmth and hunger that he had never exhibited while he had lived.
Though three years had passed since his death, Eleanor woke with her heart racing, aching for something she could not name. They had never shared this bed, yet she felt his presence surrounding her like a shroud.
Wiping a sleeve across her damp eyes, Eleanor untangled the sheets from around her legs and drew back the bed curtains. Soft grey light was beginning to find its way through the gaps in the heavy curtains covering the windows. Slipping a fur-trimmed surcoat over her linen shift, Eleanor hurried across the chilly stone floor to the window seat. A biting squall was blowing in from the sea, tossing fishing boats around the jetty at the shoreline. Eleanor settled herself on to the thick cushions, curling her bare feet beneath her, and waited for the sun to rise.
She was perfectly placed, therefore, to spot the rider on horseback as he galloped down the road from the nearby village, coming to an abrupt halt at the water’s edge. He dismounted and paced back and forth, searching for something. At this time of year the arrival of a message from her father was neither unexpected nor welcome and Eleanor frowned to herself. Soon the tide would go out, revealing the causeway and the messenger would find his way across the narrow path that separated the islet from the mainland. The man lowered his hood, revealing a shock of hair the exact copper shade of Eleanor’s own. At the sight her heart leapt and she broke into a smile.
The door opened and Eleanor’s maid entered carrying a basket of wood.
‘Jennet, come look.’ Eleanor beckoned. She indicated to the figure huddling in the rain as the sea slowly receded. ‘Go tell Goodwife Bradshawe we have a visitor for breakfast, then help me dress. I need to look my best. I can’t have my brother reporting back that I’m fading away in my isolation!’
* * *
An hour later Eleanor stood in the doorway, watching with amusement as her brother made his slow ascent up the steep hill. He paused at the gate to hand his horse to a waiting stable boy before climbing the winding pathway of old, granite steps, the sleet making his progress slow. Eleanor grinned to herself at the sight of the heir to the barony of Tawstott red-faced and breathing heavily with exertion.
‘Good morning, Edmund. You must have risen early to beat the tide!’
Her brother scowled and pushed his dripping curls from his eyes. ‘Why couldn’t Baldwin have built a house somewhere flat?’ he grumbled good-naturedly.
It was a familiar joke and Eleanor laughed. ‘It’s because you’re a year older now. You didn’t complain when you were twenty-five.’ She reached up to bat him on the arm. Edmund caught her hand and drew her in a hug before holding her at arm’s length and examining her carefully.
‘You’re thinner than last year,’ he announced, ‘Mother won’t be pleased.’
Eleanor rolled her eyes. ‘I assume I will have a few days’ grace to make myself look presentable? I don’t have to return today?’
Edmund shook his head. ‘No. Now please can I come in? I need some wine to take the chill from my bones!’
Arm in arm, Eleanor led her brother to her favourite room, a cosy chamber overlooking the causeway. Food was waiting on the table before the fireplace and a maid poured goblets of warm wine and ladled steaming oysters into bowls.
Edmund pulled a fold of parchment from his bag and handed it to Eleanor. She examined the wax seal, recognising the crest of Tawstott and the personal arms of Sir Edgar. She dropped the letter unopened on the table and returned her attention to her bowl, scooping up the last of the creamy sauce with a hunk of bread.
‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ Edmund asked.
‘Is there any need?’ Eleanor stared into her brother’s green eyes, so similar to her own. ‘It will say the same thing it has done for the past three years. Our father reminds me that he tolerates my stubbornness in choosing to live in my husband’s house, but a spit of land cut off by winter storms is no place for a lone maiden. He commands my attendance in Tawstott over midwinter. Am I right?’
Edmund nodded. ‘I believe the term he uses is “wilfulness”, but otherwise, yes. He is sending a carriage three days from now to give you time to arrange your affairs.’
Eleanor scowled. ‘He’s so sure I will obey him. I hate it! Remind Father that I have my own carriage. I’ll travel in that.’
Edmund patted her hand, but she whipped it away, ignoring his injured look.
‘Eleanor, don’t be like this.’ Her brother frowned. ‘We all worry about you, living here alone.’
‘I’m not alone,’ Eleanor said lightly. ‘I have Jennet and Goodwife Bradshawe to keep me company. I spend my days reading and weaving, or walking on the shore.’
‘You used to spend your days dancing and riding! You’re only twenty, Eleanor. You should marry again.’
Eleanor pushed her chair back abruptly and walked to the window, her heart beating rapidly. At Edmund’s words the walls seemed to darken and close in.
‘I was lucky that father chose me a husband I would have been happy with. I don’t intend to risk my luck or my heart again.’
‘When have you ever risked your heart, Eleanor?’ Edmund snorted. ‘You didn’t love Baldwin.’
‘I might have grown to in time!’ Eleanor retorted. ‘I was fond of him.’ Her eyes fell on the portrait of her late husband. ‘Baldwin was a kind and gentle man. Life with him would have been safe and peaceful.’
Her brother looked at her disbelievingly. ‘Safe and peaceful? You don’t have the faintest idea what love is.’
Eleanor glared at him, hands on her hips, her hands itching to slap him. ‘And you do? Tumbling into bed with tavern wenches isn’t love, Edmund,’ she scolded.
For a moment they could have been children arguing again. Edmund laughed. ‘Fair point, though there’s a lot to be said for a quick tumble to lift the spirits. You need someone to kiss you properly, Sister. You might find you enjoy it.’
Eleanor blushed, the memory of her dream rising in her mind. She took a deep breath and turned to face her brother. ‘We have a day together, let’s not quarrel. There are bows in the armoury. Do you think you’ve improved enough to beat me yet?’
Edmund’s archery had improved, but Eleanor had the satisfaction of taking six out of the ten targets and the day passed quickly. Her heart sank when the causeway bells rang out, signalling the dusk tide. They stood together, watching as the water rose higher. In ten minutes more the tide would begin to cover the causeway. Edmund took his sister’s hand and kissed it formally. ‘Baldwin wouldn’t have wanted you to bury yourself away like this, you know.’
Eleanor’s heart twisted. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted any of this! He wanted to grow old, to have children, to live...’ Her voice cracked as the unfairness of it struck her. She took a deep breath and fixed a smile on her face.
‘I do love it here,’ she told him. ‘I have so much to do, managing the estate the way Baldwin would have wanted it run. I don’t get bored, or lonely.’
Edmund raised an eyebrow. He didn’t deny her words, nor did he confirm them.
‘One day you’ll have to marry again,’ Edmund said, ‘or find a very good reason why you won’t.’
With a nod he mounted his horse and walked it across the granite path. Eleanor watched as the mist swallowed him up before pulling her hood up and striding back to the house, her mind fixing on the tasks that would occupy her for the next few days.
* * *
Three days passed in such a whirl of organisation that Eleanor barely had time for sadness. It was only on her final morning as she wandered through the rooms, running her hand over furniture and tapestries, that her eyes began to sting. When she came to the portrait of Sir Baldwin, she stopped and regarded the serious man with the thinning hair and anxious face. She briefly raised a hand and touched the canvas in a gesture of farewell. She looked around her home one final time and began the descent to the waiting carriage.
* * *
They travelled fast inland, but it was late afternoon before Eleanor’s carriage reached the crossing of the River Taw. The wide river was unusually high for the time of year and moving faster than Eleanor had seen it before. Hers was the only carriage waiting to cross so the driver manoeuvred it into the front of the ferry. The craft, no more than a large, flat platform with low wooden railings at either side, dipped from side to side alarmingly.
Eleanor’s stomach heaved as the cramped carriage rocked on the chains suspending it within the wooden frame, adding to her sense of nausea. She peered through the curtain.
‘I’m going to get out,’ she told Jennet. ‘I think I’ll feel more nauseous if I stay inside.’ Eleanor fastened her cloak around her shoulders and drew up the hood, squeezing her way past the maid’s knees. A blast of wind hit her as she climbed down, whipping her cloak up around her. She clutched the edges tightly together with one hand while she gripped the low railing of the ferry to steady herself.
The ferryman braced his back and rammed his pole into the riverbank. The craft creaked alarmingly as it started to move away from the shore, the great chain that spanned the river pulling taut.
The shrill blast of a hunting horn sounded, ripping apart the peace. A commanding voice shouted, ‘Ferryman, stop!’
Eleanor peered back at the riverbank. A rider on an imposing chestnut-coloured horse was galloping along the road at the edge of the water. He pulled the horse up short.
