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Stopping short, he grinned sheepishly at her. “Aye, ye are right, Mistress Belle! My mind mistook—almost.”
He pulled out the usual stale bread, then added a generous wedge of cheese that he had stolen from the kitchen. He dropped his precious gifts into her lap. Dexter hopped down from his perch and trotted across the floor to investigate the source of the delicious aroma. Belle covered the food with the hem of her skirt, then blew Will her customary kiss.
“May all the angels protect you,” she whispered to him.
He touch his fingers to his forehead. “And with you, Mistress.” Then he slammed the heavy door behind him.
Belle bit into the cheese, savoring its sharp tang on her tongue. Dexter sat beside her and watched as she devoured her meal. His pink underlip quivered. After she swallowed the last morsel, she sighed then cocked an indulgent eye at her loyal companion.
“How now, Dexter! Do not reproach me with those great golden eyes of yours. You know you dine very well and at your leisure, while I must wait for the crumbs to fall my way.” She patted her lap. Dexter hopped onto the proffered spot, circled once to find a position to his liking, then lay down with his front paws tucked under his chest.
Belle stroked him as she thought aloud. “What do you think of Will’s news? A moonstruck suitor for Griselda, accompanied by a bumbling squire? Tis a rich jest indeed. It almost makes me want to laugh—if I could remember how to do it. Oh, Dexter, will I ever laugh again?”
But the faithful cat had gone to sleep.
Chapter Four
The midnight watch on Bodiam’s parapets had trod their appointed rounds for over an hour before Mark stole up the spiral stone staircase in the northwest tower. Although he carried a lantern, it was not yet lit for fear of attracting unwanted attention from a score of Mortimer Fletcher’s evil-looking minions. Mark needed no light to guide his way. In his green salad days, he had often roamed Bodiam’s galleries and stairways in the dark searching for one or another of Lady Cavendish’s adorable maidservants.
As he passed one of the arrow slits, he pulled his thick wool cloak tighter around his shoulders to ward off the keen draft that knifed through the opening. Pausing at the top of the steps, he pressed his ear against the stout door in front of him. He heard nothing but the whine of the wind. He backed against the far wall and stood stock still until the watch called out the next quarter hour.
Satisfied that he had not been observed, Mark knelt and lit the lantern candle with a spark from his tinderbox. In the flickering flame, his elongated shadow danced across the wall’s rough stones. Mark held the light close to the door then he whistled with surprise. A large iron key protruded from the lock. Mortimer was a fool to have complete confidence that no traitor lurked among his vile servants. After casting a final glance down the steep stairwell, Mark gently turned the key. The bolt protested with a teeth-gritting squeal. The noise was enough to wake the dead. The short hairs on the back of Mark’s neck stiffened.
He lifted the handle and gave a little push. The door creaked open like the lid of a coffin. All the old tales of goblins and ghosties that Mistress Sondra Owens used to spin around Bodiam’s kitchen hearth flooded back into Mark’s memory. Lady Kat’s wise woman often sent the young maids into flights of hysteria with her bloodcurdling stories. Mark had taken those opportunities to soothe the girls’ fears with many a stolen kiss and cuddle. He grinned at the memory. Like a shadow, he slipped through the narrow opening, then closed the door behind him.
A bundle of rags stirred in the corner of the privy alcove farthest from the open window. Mark gripped the lantern’s ring tighter. “Belle?” he whispered.
Two golden eyes pierced the darkness like no earthly creature. Mark loosened his dagger. “In the name of Saint Michael, I command you to be gone, hobgoblin!”
A wraith-like figure pulled herself into a sitting position on an untidy heap of foul straw. “How now, Mortimer?” she croaked in a mocking tone. “Methinks tis long past your bedtime. What churlish intent prompts this visit at such a late hour?”
Mark could barely believe his eyes or ears. Twas Belle’s voice, exactly the same as the one that often taunted his dreams, but the creature before him looked more like her spirit than the merry gremlin who had made his last year at Bodiam such a misery. “Belle?” he whispered again. Drawing nearer, he held up the lantern.
Her eyes blinked in the bright light. Beside her, a dark object disappeared under the straw. “Sweet Saint Anne!” she murmured, passing a hand across her forehead. “My hunger has conjured a nightmare.”
Mark’s apprehension changed to exasperation. “My gracious thanks for your sterling opinion of me, Belle Cavendish. Methinks after such a long time the very least you could say would be ‘How nice to see you again, Mark’ especially since I have traveled many miles to rescue you.”
Shielding her eyes from the lantern’s glare, she stared at him. “Mark Hayward?” she breathed at last.
He executed a curt bow. “In the flesh and at your service—at least for the present time.”
For one dazzling instant her face lit up with a radiant smile that banished every sensible thought in Mark’s head. The chill room grew perceptibly warmer. Then she shuttered her expression and replaced it with her more familiar one of amused contempt.
“Ah ha! I see that you still crawl between heaven and earth,” Belle remarked.
Her tart tongue made him itch to shake her but the sight of her wan face broke his heart instead. He knelt down beside her. “What has happened to you, chou-chou?” he asked, reverting to the pet name he had called her since she had been a toddler.
Belle’s eyes narrowed. “Surely tis obvious even to you, Marcus,” she replied, not looking at him. “I have been lying about on goose down quilts all the livelong day and pleasuring myself with sweetmeats while singing roundelays.” Her lower lip trembled before she bit it.
Mark stroked her sunken cheek. Her skin was dry and cold to his touch. “God’s teeth! I will kill Mortimer Fletcher by inches. Tis a good thing that your father cannot see you in this wretched state.”
At the mention of Brandon, she attempted to rise. “Papa? Oh, where is he?”
Mark caught her before she fell to the hard floor. Belle weighed nothing in his arms. With his free hand, he fumbled with the clasp that held his cloak around his neck. “Soft, Belle. Your father is still at Wolf Hall.”
A faint sheen of tears filled her eyes, but she dashed them away with the back of her hand. “He did not come for me?” she whispered.
Mark wrapped the cloak around her and held her close to his chest willing his warmth into her thin bones. “Tush, chou-chou. Do not think ill of him. He lies abed with a broken hip.”
She gasped.
“He will mend in time and with Lady Kat’s gentle care,” Mark soothed. “Tis fear for your safety that pains him more than his injury. He has sent me in his stead.”
Belle arched one of her delicate eyebrows. “Then I suppose you will have to do. Beggars cannot be choosers. Where are your men-at-arms?”
Mark smoothed a lock of her golden hair. “I fear I have none, only—”
She bolted upright in his arms. “What!” she wailed. “Oh, Mark! I see your brains are still as thick as Tewksbury mustard!”
He fumed in silence for a moment. His brilliant plan for Belle’s escape was not working as he had expected. Though she was as weak as a milksop, the chit showed no inclination to express her admiration or gratitude for all the trouble—not to mention the personal sacrifice—he had already endured on her behalf.
“Do you take me for a fool, Belle?” he growled.
She snapped her fingers. “Nay, sir! If I could, I would not take you at all!”
Mark was torn between the urge to kiss her or to shake her. “You ungrateful little wretch! I have half a mind to leave you as I found you.” He attempted to gather her back into his embrace. He had liked that part of the rescue very much.
Belle glowered at him. “Begone then! Methinks I have given you enough amusement for one night.”
Mark glowered back. Their cold noses practically touched. “You will note that I am not laughing, Belle.”
Her mouth, faintly pink, enticed him. Her lips hovered near to his—just as they had done at their last meeting. Just before Belle had pushed him out of the apple tree.
She wrinkled her nose. “Cudgel your lusty thought, Mark. These lips are not yours for kissing and the time is out of joint. By my troth, I had rather be wooed by a snail than to be rescued by one.”
“A snail?” he snarled. The minx had not changed one jot in the last eight years. She was still as impossible as ever. “So be it!” He rose, carrying her with him. “We have dallied here too long as it is.”
Belle beat against his chest with her fists. Though her blows had none of their former strength, Mark was hurt by her lack of cooperation.
She grimaced. “Unhand me, you purple-headed malt-worm!”
He tucked the cloak under her chin. “Tut, tut. There is no need to thank me now, Belle. Later on, of course, you may shower me with your proper gratitude.”
She bit his thumb.
He almost dropped her.
“Belle!” He shook her to gain her full attention. “As much as I have enjoyed this pleasant chitchat with you, do you not think it wise that we quit this dank cell and make a swift exit into yonder woods?”
She wriggled out of his arms. “Nay!” She sank down onto her reeky pallet.
Mark thought of a number of dastardly things he could do to speed along this frustrating enterprise but he rejected all of them. If Belle didn’t kill him afterward, Brandon would. Then it would be good-bye forever to Mark’s future estate. He dropped down beside her.
“In plain words and simple sentences, pray explain to me why leaving Bodiam is not to your liking?” he asked stretching his patience to the limit
Belle shook her hair out of her face. “Because this castle is mine. Is that simple enough for your understanding?”
Mark failed to comprehend her obtuse logic.
She sighed. “Oh, why am I infected with you?”
He attempted a dash of levity. “Because I am the most wonderful man you have ever known?”
She jabbed him several times with her finger. “Don’t you dare give yourself airs with me, you gull-catcher! I am not one of your hot wenches dressed in flame-colored taffeta.”
A warm flush of embarrassment crept up Mark’s neck. Belle knew him far too well for comfort. “I never thought—” he began.
“Ha!” she cut him off. “Of course not! Tis why men like you fill this poor world with ill-favored children!”
Mark counted to ten before he trusted himself to reply. “Let us forget my past sins for the moment, Belle. Instead, let us attend to the matter at hand before daylight takes us by surprise. If you refuse to leave here because Bodiam is your home, then exactly how do you expect me to rescue you?”
For once she allowed her defenses to drop. “Papa was supposed to come with an army,” she replied in a voice filled with despair.
She took his hand in hers and held it close to her heart. Her gentle touch sent hot blood rushing through his veins. Mark took several deep breaths to steady himself. His nose tickled.
“You have no idea what it is like to be a bastard, even one that is as well-loved as Papa loves me,” she said softly. “There is nothing in this world that is mine by right—not my name, nor a title, nor acceptance in society, not even the motley rags I wear. I have nothing—except Bodiam. My sweet stepmother deeded her castle to me for my lifetime.” She lifted her chin a notch. “And I will never relinquish it, especially not to that double-dealing sot of a brother-in-law who seeks to wrest it from me.”
She leaned closer to Mark. “If I steal out of my own home like a thief in the night, Mortimer will claim that I abandoned my property and that he, as the brother of my late husband, could take possession according to the law. By God in His heaven, Mark, I swear I will never leave Bodiam.”
He squeezed her hand. “Even if you die for it, chou-chou?” he asked in a gentle voice.
“Aye,” she answered.
Mark put his arm around her and drew her against his side. Again he was struck by how thin she had become. He could feel each one of her ribs. His anger at Mortimer increased a hundredfold. Killing was too good for the scullion.
“Methinks you are going to cause me a heap of trouble—again,” he remarked in a rueful voice.
She snorted. “You once told me that I excel in trouble-making.”
Mark chose to ignore that jibe. “Then if you will not leave the castle, we must find a way to make Mortimer go,” he reasoned aloud though he did not know how he could effect this miracle before Belle died from the cur’s maltreatment.
Instead of pushing him away, she snuggled inside the crook of his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. “How many men did you say accompanied you?”
He swallowed. “Only one—though he fights like ten…and my squire,” Mark added as an afterthought. Belle would kill him if she knew that Kitt slept within Bodiam’s unhappy walls.
Her lips curled into a weak smile. “Is your squire’s name Bertrum by any chance?”
He blinked at her. “How the devil did you—?” He rubbed his itching nose.
For the first time, Belle actually laughed. The music of her mirth filled his ears like a summer’s song.
“Don’t tell me you are Griselda’s unfortunate suitor?”
Mark shrugged. “Twas not a bad idea for gaining entry into the castle though I must confess I was not prepared for the woman herself. Zounds! Mother Nature did not fashion Mistress Fletcher well. And may the good Lord amend her voice or render it silent altogether. She squeals like a stuck pig!”
Belle gave him an arch look. “My spy tells me that you sang to her, paid her loving compliments and kissed her hand.”
“Twas all in counterfeit, chuck. I swear!” Why did he feel like an impaled worm on a fish hook? “Trust me, sweet Belle. Twas all for you.”
Belle rapped him on the chest with her knuckle. “Ha! I have heard you whisper that watery vow in a trusting maiden’s ear too many times.”
Mark rubbed his nose again. “Do you think I enjoy playing Griselda’s swain?”
A mischievous smile curled her lovely lips. “After all these years of chasing skirts, methinks tis a just punishment for you, Marcus.”
He pulled his handkerchief out of his sleeve and blew his nose before giving her an answer to her cruel observation. “I had only intended to enact the role one day before I carried you out of this den. The mere thought of Griselda’s company is enough to curdle any man’s ardor—even mine.”
Belle chuckled. “Poor Marcus! I fear you must continue to act the love-struck fool for a while longer.”
He swore into the depths of his handkerchief. Either the dust or the moldy straw made his nose run and his eyes water. “Until when?” he asked groaning inwardly.
“Until I can devise a plan to send Mortimer and his ill-favored sister fleeing from Bodiam forever.”
Mark sneezed. “Forsooth, you are a wicked lass to wish this fate on me, Belle. By the book, what plagues my nose?”
In answer, Belle lifted a corner of her blanket. An overweight feline regarded Mark with large amber eyes. “I had forgotten that you cannot endure the company of a cat. Tis Dexter, my best friend.”
Mark sneezed again by way of salutation. “Does he reside with you here?”
She nodded. Then she lifted the great hairy brute out of his nest and plopped him on her lap. “Aye, he keeps me warm at night and brings me bits of food now and then—also the occasional rat, quite dead, of course.” The creature purred in a loud, bragging manner.
Mark shuddered. “How delightful!” He regarded the cat with open disgust. “Belle, forget this foolish whim. You should not sleep another night in this hole with a rat-bearing cat!” I would make you a far better bedfellow if I could. Taken aback by this thought, Mark hurried on. “Once in the safety of Wolf Hall we will plot against Mortimer and his ungodly sister.”
Belle hugged the cat closer to her. “Never! You may as well go home, Mark, and leave me in mine.”
With a muttered oath, he stood and brushed bits of straw from his dark blue hose. As a child, Belle had been as stubborn as a jackass. Why did he think she had changed now? “Very well! I am a fool of all fools but I will do what you ask of me, though the cost is high. That shameless jade tried to lead me to her bedchamber after supper this evening. Aye, and we had only met a few hours earlier!”
Belle whispered into one of the cat’s pointed black ears. “Poor Griselda must be very desperate indeed!”
“She breaks looking glasses with her toothy smiles,” Mark muttered.
Belle waved him away. “Begone, Marcus. Get your beauty sleep so that you may be even more enticing to the fair Griselda on the morrow.”
“This is not what I had bargained for,” he grumbled. He sneezed again.
Belle peeled off his cloak and held it up to him.
He shook his head. “Keep it. The night is cold. Twill warm you better than that ball of fur.”
