Page 20 of Her Noble Groom
She startled at the title. If this man represented Richard Neville, he had probably come as a guest of Seigneur de Carteret, a fellow Yorkist, and she had done well not to cause offense.
Thomasse selected a bowl and ladled out a hearty portion of stew, then fetched a spoon, a tankard, a portion of bread, and a pitcher of ale, and placed them on the table.
“I regret I have nothing better to offer.”
He plopped into a chair. With his foot, he pushed out the chair opposite and indicated she join him.
Thomasse sat primly, hands clasped in her lap.
She recoiled as he wolfed down the stew, smacking his lips.
He poured himself a tankard of ale and requested another bowl of stew.
Glad for something to occupy her hands, she complied.
When he had sopped up the last bit of gravy with the bread and downed the ale, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and poured himself another tankard. “I hoped to speak with your father.”
“Why? Do you know him?” Her legs felt weak, and she grabbed the chair to steady herself. Surely King Edward would not pursue them here.
“I imagine not,” Hareford replied. “I wished to thank him for his hospitality.” He scrutinized her face. “Have we met before?”
“Seems an impossibility.”
“You neglected to tell me your name.”
“Thomasse.”
Hareford drained the contents of the tankard, then returned to the fire. Despite the warmth, he shivered uncontrollably.
“Let me fetch a blanket.” Her nerves prickled as she felt the man’s eyes track her every move, like a cat hunting its prey. What is keeping Father?
She handed him the blanket, and he wrapped it around his shoulders. When she saw the expression of gratitude in his almond-shaped blue eyes, she felt a twinge of guilt for thinking badly of him.
He continued to gaze at her. “You are a handsome maiden.”
The silence stretched awkwardly. Finally, Hareford said, “Forgive me if I have been too forward. When do you expect your father?”
Thomasse shook her head. “Some unexpected delay. Perchance I should go search for him.”
A laugh escaped his lips. “Perhaps you have sought to deceive me. ”
His words sounded casual, but the hair on her neck raised.
Her chest tightened. She reached into her pocket and her fingers closed around the spindle.
What had she been thinking, inviting a man into the cottage when she was alone?
Even if nothing unseemly occurred, a maiden’s reputation could be ruined.
Her feet itched to flee, but they seemed rooted to the ground.
He let the blanket drop from his shoulders and moved toward the door.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly, he was a gentleman and understood the impropriety of being alone with a maiden. She picked up his cloak and held it out. “Do not forget your cloak.”
He did not turn back, but sauntered over and barred the door.
T homasse floated between wakefulness and darkness, conscious of pain in every part of her body.
The left side of her face throbbed. Slowly, the haze faded and full awareness returned.
She opened her eyes and struggled to sit.
How had she come to be lying on the hard table, unable to move her legs?
Looking down, she screamed at the sight of her torn kirtle and blood-streaked skirt.
Her pulse raced when she saw Hareford by the fire, dipping a torch into the flames. Memories of his unwelcome advances flooded in, and she struggled against her bonds. “Untie me!”
He leered, the gash on his left cheek a sign that the spindle had hit its mark. “Had you cooperated, it would have been unnecessary.”
He lifted the torch from the fire and touched it to the dry rushes.
The room spun as she struggled harder against the bonds. “What are you doing?” She could scarcely breathe. Surely, he did not mean to burn her alive.
He donned his cloak and strode to the door. “I cannot leave you to tell tales.”
“You are a monster! ”
He smirked as he lifted the latch. “Those feelings will be short-lived. By the time the fire consumes the cottage, you will bless me for not sending you to your maker a virgin.”
“Please, I beg you. Do not leave me—”
He slipped out the door and pulled it shut behind him.
Her eyes watered and itched as smoke filled the cottage. Her fingers fumbled uselessly as she picked at the wool threads wrapped about her ankles. She uttered a quick prayer. “Dear God in Heaven, spare my life.”
Outside, a dog barked and men shouted. Could my prayer be answered already? The door scraped along the dirt floor, and the shadowy figure of Philippe appeared. He coughed and waved his arms, then stepped back outside. A moment later, he reappeared, his cloak covering his mouth.
“Get low to the ground,” she yelled.
Philippe crawled toward her and pulled a dagger from his pouch and sawed at the bindings.
“Give it to me.” Her voice was edged with panic. “Smother the fire!” Philippe handed her the dagger, and she waved it toward the back of the cottage. “Grab the blanket!”
Philippe scanned the room. “I do not see one.”
“In the back corner.” She tried to sound calm, but her voice was shrill.
Her hands trembled as she attempted to cut away the bindings. Given the awkward angle, her efforts were futile. The flames licked along the rushes, moving closer to the cook fire. “Hurry!”
Philippe beat at the flames, his actions spurring their progress.
“Drop it on top.”
He dropped the blanket over the flames. “Now what?”
Fearing the blanket might ignite, making the situation more precarious, she yelled, “The sideboard by the window! The bucket! Wet the blanket!”
He crept along the floor, feeling for the bucket. When he found it, he picked it up and sloshed the water over the blanket. The fire hissed like a snake as it died out.
Thomasse closed her eyes and slumped forward. The worst danger had passed.
“Let me help. ”
She opened her eyes and Philippe stood before her with an open palm, and she placed the dagger in it.
He quickly cut away the threads, and she tumbled off the table, throwing her arms around his neck, tears wetting her cheeks. “I prayed someone would find me.”
She drew back, aware of the impropriety of her actions and the state of her clothing.
She clutched the edges of her torn kirtle and leaned against the table.
“I feel unwell.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, the other over her stomach, and rushed toward the door, but her legs crumpled beneath her.
Philippe lifted her up, wrapping one of her arms around his neck, and put an arm about her waist, and steered her out the door. On the threshold, she heaved. When she finished, she leaned against the wall of the cottage, shivering.
Philippe ducked back inside. I pray he does not understand what happened to me.
He is too young. From the other side of the cottage, she heard the voice of the seigneur, and a knot formed in her stomach.
If he suspects, my future as Philippe’s governess may be over.
And if my father turns me away, where will I go?
The stranger’s voice drifted from the other side of the cottage and that of a third man. James . She covered her face with her hands. Why did it have to be James?
Philippe returned with her cloak and draped it over her shoulders. “Who was that man?”
She shook her head. “I do not know. Some Englishman—said his name was John, that his ship capsized in the bay.”
“Most likely a pirate,” Philippe said. “Must have got left behind when the others fled to the ship.”
“My father!” Thomasse gasped.
“He took shelter at Grosnez Castle with the other tenants and the sheep. He must be worried about you. I will send someone to let him know you are safe.”
She stared ahead, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. So strange to feel completely numb, as if she was looking at herself from outside of her body. “My father must never know. ”
Philippe fetched his horse. “You need a leech. I shall take you to the manor house.”
She grabbed his arm. “Philippe, promise you will not tell my father.”
His face looked serious. “He will learn nothing from me.”
He helped her into the saddle. Every movement was painful, but at least she would not have to walk.
When they reached the crest of the hillock, a dog barked.
Thomasse looked toward the sound. The seigneur and James were astride horses, heading down the path to the village.
The pirate, Hareford, stumbled along behind them, a rope tethered about his neck, his hands bound behind him, Puddles nipping at his heels.
At least there would be some justice. She could take comfort knowing no other woman would suffer at his hands.
J ames kept the roan’s pace slow as the pirate stumbled along behind on the way to the village. He would be held in the gaol until he could be turned over to the French.
It hurt that Thomasse avoided looking his way. But after the thoughts that had—and had not—crossed his mind earlier, he did not consider himself worthy of her attention.
When they learned that Thomasse was not at Grosnez Castle, it was Philippe who had pleaded for a search party.
When he witnessed a man leaving the cottage, his heart nigh broke, believing that she had entertained some swain alone.
But when the hound bounded down the hill and the man raised a burning torch, the truth had crashed over him, and his heart gripped with fear.
He wanted to race his horse down the hillock and rescue her, but the seigneur had given that responsibility to Philippe, while he and the seigneur apprehended the pirate.
He had watched as Philippe led the gelding, with Thomasse seated atop, up the hillock toward the manor house. She had turned and looked his way, and his stomach had dropped at the sight of her swollen face, marred by bruises, and torn clothes.
He glanced back at the pirate, noting the fresh gash on the man’s left cheek. She had fought him, engaging in a fight she could not win. His jaw clenched as he struggled to quell the storm rising in his chest.
And the guilt. This was his doing. If he had stood up to her father, they might have been married now, and this would not have happened.
Rather than being there to comfort her, to assure her one day she would know joy again, he must content himself in aiding with the imprisonment of the vile man who hurt his beloved Thomasse.
T homasse groaned as Madame de Beauvoir poked and prodded while Penna looked on.
Everything hurt. She flinched when the healer touched the bruise where the pirate had struck her.
She refused to think his name, for he deserved nothing more than her hatred.
Strangely, the pain of her outward wounds paled in comparison to the torment that rent her soul.
Madame pulled the kirtle down over Thomasse’s knees.
“Your injuries are severe. They will heal, but the damage may leave you barren.” She rummaged through her satchel of medicines and produced a bottle.
“To ensure no long-term consequences, drink this elixir, a dose each day until it is gone.” She set it on the dressing table, then gathered her satchel.
“I will return in a few days to check your progress.”
“Thank you, Madame de Beauvoir,” Penna said. “I will personally ensure Thomasse takes the draught.”
Thomasse rolled away, not wanting the women to see the tears that streamed down her face.
She dared not speak lest she dissolve into sobs.
This was her fault. If she had listened to her instincts, she would have slammed the door in the stranger’s face.
But instead, she had invited him in. If only she had returned to the manor when she discovered her father was not there .
When Madame had gone, Penna perched on the edge of the bed, her expression filled with pity. “No need to pretend. I may not be your mother, but I can hold you while you cry.”
Thomasse sat, and Penna wrapped her arms around her. The tears flowed like a broken cistern. Would they ever cease? But finally, the well ran dry. Thomasse drew away, and Penna produced a kerchief from her pocket.
Thomasse sniffed. “Thank you for your compassion.”
“In this moment, I saw my dear, sweet daughter. If she lived, and I were gone—” Penna’s voice trailed off. “Get some rest. It helps the body heal.”
As Penna rose to leave, Thomasse grabbed her sleeve. “Pray, do not tell my father.”
“I will keep your secret and request the seigneur do likewise.” She glided toward the door. “However, I can make no promises on his behalf.”
Thomasse’s heart swelled with gratitude. A human heart hid beneath Penna’s stern facade. But she knew better than to trust the lady’s benevolence to last long.