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When she approached the gate to the grounds outside the w
alls, a man came to stand before her in the same livery as the ones who rode with her yesterday.
“I am afraid you are not allowed outside the castle, my lady.” He informed her with firmness.
Her brows pleated in contrariety. “What kind of nonsense is this?” She eyed him with that haughtiness she reserved for inconvenient people. “I am just going for a walk.”
“I understand, my lady, but I have strict orders not to allow you out of the walls.”
Anger emerged in her. The darned man! He found no qualms in keeping her a prisoner. That would make things more difficult than she thought at first. But he would not thwart her, not in this mission. For now, though, she would play meek.
“Very well.” The outer bailey had to do, being big enough for gardens, an extensive orchard, vegetable and herbs gardens. She took her walk around it and looked for possible side entrances through the walls and if she might open them.
The castle itself was a medium size, compared to others in England. No less magnificent though. Grey granite lent it a fairy air, with its four outer wall turrets, sprinkled with arrow slits and topped with ample battlements; the inner wall mirrored the outer one. This keep had been enlarged through the centuries and now resembled a mansion, standing high up a hill, which enabled surveillance of all the area surrounding it. She considered spending days here enjoyable perks of her job.
She ran into her footman and instructed him to be attentive to anyone mentioning that meeting and to find out where this Burns’ house lay. That done, she decided to go find a book. She would have to act pliable if she wanted to accomplish any of her secret tasks.
As Annabel asked her the housekeeper gave directions for the library. Not for a moment did she doubt that the Duke would have assembled one since she knew he liked books as much as her.
Said library astonished her for its enormity, its luxury and its variety of books. Gothic stained-glass windows along the walls, massive oak desks, comfortable chairs and arm-chairs and elegant shelves stacked with every imaginable book under the sun. What if she called it the direct descendant of the burned one in Alexandria, she mused? She wandered around it spellbound.
Then, she came across the Arthurian Cycle section and almost fainted. There were several editions of all its tales and authors, anonymous or not. And… Gracious me! All the oldest editions of Chretien de Troyes, Thomas of Britain, von Strassburg! How was it even possible? Oh, look! This tome of Tristan and Iseult! With magnificent mediaeval illuminations though it was a late edition! She touched everything with reverence.
Paying more attention now, the stained-glass windows exhibited scenes of the Knights of the Round Table. This could not be! They must be a recent addition to the windows. Norman castles did not have this kind of glass work and even less on Arthurian themes.
The watery sun shone on the glass windows plunging the room in a colourful light, which gave it a feel of levity despite the heavy furniture.
She took Tristan and Iseult to the reading desk and spent hours reading it and admiring its illuminations.
* * *
Romulus came down to the great hall ready for dinner. His housekeeper told him the lady spent the day in the library after her frustrated attempt at an outing of the castle walls. She discovered it, then. A library he refurbished with a mediaeval tales’ enthusiast in mind. He would never confess to anyone who was the enthusiast in question, much less the lady! And tell anyone he paid for a special edition of Tristan and Iseult made with strict directions at a gothic style with lather cover, copyist script and illumination? Jamais dans ma vie!
A wispy swish of skirts drew his attention to her presence. As he turned to her, he received a blast of femininity. Dressed in a midnight-blue, high-waist dress of the most diaphanous silk, she glided down the last steps of the stairs and into the great hall. Her hair caught up in a simple chignon beaded with simple diamond pins that shone with the fire in the hearth.
Intense desire rose in him, at the same time resentment resurged. He would like to punch himself for how his body had no shame in wanting her. He nearly– nearly –regretted keeping her in the castle, for the torment was depthless. There was no other way though. Either he did this, or he would not find out what she came here for in truth.
“My lady.” He bowed and held her chair for her to sit.
She curtsied. “Your Grace.” And he imagined what her silky voice would sound like in the throes of passion.
His seat in front of the countess, he had no option but to raise his attention to her. A painful action if ever there was one. Her intelligent demeanour, soft alabaster skin, curvaceous body calling him to the shadows of hell, a treacherous siren he should not even acknowledge existed.
“I hear you spent time in the library, Lady Winchester.”
Her liquid brown eyes lit at the comment. “An impressive assemblage you have there, Lord Blackthorne.”
Pride at his efforts to bring to life a lost world emerged in him. “You liked it, I assume.”
Her spontaneous smile almost made him groan. “Like is too mild a word, Your Grace.” The candelabra’s flickering flames caressed her beguiling face, there where his fingers wanted to wander. “You know my name. Use it.” The command came too hoarse, too low. Too revealing.
Dilation of her irises indicated she noticed it and responded to it. “I must not, Your Grace.” She said an octave silkier, as she lowered her lashes, but he already saw how they reacted.
The footmen served the first course and vanished. She took a forkful of food and her cushioned lips closed around it, causing him a pained rush of blood where it should not go.
Her stare levelled on him as his fixed on her. Her cheeks coloured and her bosom lifted with a deep breath. He should propose to her, make her his mistress, try to vanquish these eight years of bitterness.
“You never told me about your time at war.” She interrupted his rambling-on mind.
