Page 29 of When I Fall in Love (De Piaget #4)
B rigit of Islington stood in the second-finest chamber in the keep and looked out the window. It wasn’t enough that Robin and Anne had been displaced for her. It also wasn’t enough that she had enjoyed that brief moment of triumph the night before when she’d held on to Nicholas de Piaget’s arm and considered how it might feel to be the Countess of Beauvois.
There was someone in her way.
Someone who needed to be removed.
She muttered vile curses under her breath. Who was that Jennifer McKinnon? Brigit knew every woman of rank in England and France and she simply could not place her. Was she some brat of Scots breeding? Obviously so, though Brigit was somewhat surprised to find such beauty coming from a country of barbarians.
Why Nicholas would allow himself to touch an unwashed wench from the north was beyond her to understand. Obviously, he’d been bewitched.
Brigit paused. Bewitched?
It was no secret that all manner of strange things happened in Scotland. Who knew but that the McKinnon wench had exerted some sort of otherworldly power over the good lord of Wyckham. And who knew but that he might be eternally grateful for a rescue from that unholy influence. Perhaps he might reward his rescuer with something far more precious than his gratitude.
Perhaps a place as mistress of Beauvois.
Brigit smiled at the thought. She had been to that lovely keep on the coast of France several years ago whilst traveling with her father. Nicholas had been younger then, not more than three-and-twenty, and so beautiful, she’d been almost more in love with him than with his castle on the edge of the sea. He’d been involved with some wench from the French court, though she’d known his heart was not in it.
She’d begun then to plan out how she might have him.
Lady Joanna had corresponded with her for months, trying to get her to come to Artane and present herself to Nicholas. Brigit had refused, knowing that she was truly the only woman of rank worthy of that beautiful castle in France. Nicholas would have known it as well, which was no doubt why he’d never chosen any of the other women Lady Joanna had brought for his inspection.
She’d known, however, that Joanna had been saving the finest for her final attempt at seeing her grandson wed. Brigit had let Joanna know that she would be pleased to come, now that the rabble had been swept away. And so she’d traveled north, fully aware that it was far away from where she truly wanted to be but that it was the only direction she could take to find herself in France.
And at Beauvois.
There was simply nothing not to like about that castle. Nicholas had bought himself the keep and the title by some means—she supposed by tourneying. It spoke well of his skill with the sword. It spoke more about his taste for fine things. In that brief se’nnight she’d spent there with her sire, she had seen more luxury than even her father could ever hope to boast of in a lifetime. She could only speculate how truly spectacular the place might be now. Gold seemed to flow into Nicholas de Piaget’s coffers without him having to do much.
At least she supposed he didn’t do much. He likely slept half the day away, raised a finger now and again to order his servants about, then spent the rest of the time eating fine food and drinking fine wine. Bastard though he might have been, at least he knew how to live like a lord.
Fortunately for him, she knew how to live like a lady.
She would have considered that further, but the conversation going on behind her distracted her. She would have bid the women be silent, but one was her mother and the other Sibil of Hansworth. If nothing else, Sibil was one for gossip that no one else seemed to ferret out.
“I don’t like him,” Sibil said with a hearty shiver. “He’s too tall. Too intense. Did you see the way he looked at Lady Jennifer last night whilst they danced? I vow he almost set her afire with his glances.”
“She is no lady,” Gytha of Islington said mildly. She shot Brigit a look, then turned back to Sibil. “But I can understand your revulsion, my dear. Lord Nicholas is a very strong man. He certainly wouldn’t be for just anyone.”
“He has a murky past as well,” Sibil pointed out. “And he lives here in the north instead of in London where things are as they should be.” She leaned in toward Gytha. “Did you hear the tales Nigel of Ledenham told of what goes on here? I wouldn’t live here for even Nicholas de Piaget’s wealth.”
Brigit came to sit down next to her mother. “Ledenham?” she said intently. “You know he’s mad, of course. But what did he say?”
“He spoke of witchcraft,” Sibil said, lowering her voice. “You know he accused Lady Amanda’s husband of it. That’s why the king is making him build that abbey. As penance.”
“Ridiculous,” Gytha snorted, “yet interesting, in the way of a frightening tale told at bedtime. Tell us more, Sibil. Ledenham is no friend of the de Piagets, is he?”
“Not at all,” Sibil continued. “Hates them with a black passion, I’d say. You would think he wouldn’t want to be anywhere near here.”
“You would think,” Gytha said. She paused. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I could have sworn I saw him in the village when we arrived.” Sibil smiled. “Perhaps he is looking for witches. But that isn’t possible, is it?” She paused. “Witches don’t really exist, do they?”
“Only in Scotland,” Brigit muttered.
Gytha squeezed her hand so hard, it hurt. “Of course not, Sibil. There are no such things as witches.” She yawned delicately. “Brigit, I daresay the walls of the keep are pressing in on you. Perhaps we should leave Sibil here to have a rest whilst you and I have a small walk. To the chapel, perhaps.”
“Of course, Mother,” Brigit said.
She rose, nodded to Sibil, then followed her mother out of the chamber.
Gytha shut the door firmly behind her, then paused in the passageway. Her eyes glittered in the torchlight. “I see our salvation.”
“ My salvation,” Brigit corrected.
“And you don’t think I’ll come along when you wed with him and settle in that lovely keep in France?” Gytha hissed. “Why do you think I’m here helping you?”
“He’ll wed me on my merits, Mother.”
“He’ll wed you with my help, ungrateful chit,” Gytha said, “and he’ll not do it unless we dispose of Mistress McKinnon.” She looked at Brigit. “Be grateful for my aid.”
“I am,” Brigit said, through gritted teeth. “But you won’t be mistress of that keep, Mother.”
“I don’t want to be mistress; I want to travel without your father. You owe me that much. Now, let us go down into the village and see if our good Ledenham is lurking about. You’ll offer to be his eyes here in the keep. And when the time comes, he’ll remove our good Scot from our midst and the way will be clear for you to take the place you were destined to have.” She paused. “You’d best not make any missteps.”
“I can win him, thank you, Mother,” Brigit said coldly.
“You’d better,” Gytha said, just as coldly. “Now, come. Let us away.”
Brigit walked with her mother down the passageway and wished she’d had the guts to simply push the woman down the stairs. A horrible accident and she would have been free of her schemes.
Well, no matter. She would make her own bargain with Ledenham, see Jennifer McKinnon disposed of, then find herself wed to Nicholas de Piaget before the year’s end.
Who knew that her mother might meet her end then as well?
An unfortunate accident, of course, but accidents did happen.
She decided to save that delicious thought for another time. Now, she had to concentrate on ridding herself of that McKinnon wench. She thought about that entertaining possibility all the way through the hall, through the courtyards, and under the barbican gate before she dismissed it as the wrong solution.
If the wench died, Nicholas would grieve. Perhaps it would be better that he see her for what she was: a witch. Then he would count himself well rid of her and look for the kind of woman of station and rank who could stand by his side at his lovely keep in France.
Aye, far better that Jennifer McKinnon be branded as a witch.
And far better still that Ledenham do the branding.
After all, it was what he did best.
“I think I see him,” Gytha murmured. “Put on your best smile.”
Brigit was already wearing it.
She closed her eyes briefly, imagined she was standing in the midst of Beauvois’s luxurious great hall, then put aside the thought as one to enjoy later.
After her work was done.