Page 9 of Lord of Deception

Chapter Seven

Kit’s initial plan was to observe the current occupants of Selwood when they set off on their hawking expedition. It would be useful to know which horse belonged to whom—thus he’d always know who was on the estate and who was away, by merely glancing into the stables. He decided to establish himself on the rough ground bordering the old fishpond, from where he could watch the hunting party cross the bridge to the woods behind. He’d be close enough to recognize individual riders.

There was long grass and feathery willow herb which needed cutting behind the pond—the perfect excuse for his presence there. Sighing, he hefted his sickle, lamenting the inevitable damage to his hands. This assignment was ruining him for womankind—what lady of Queen Bess’ court could stand so rough a touch?

The sun beat down mercilessly as he hacked and slashed at the fibrous stems. Before long, he was sweating profusely. When was the hawking party going to appear? Once he’d finished his task, he’d have no excuse to linger here.

After an hour and a half of hard labor with no sign of the riders, Kit threw his sickle down on the crumbling brick wall of the fishpond and scowled at it. His over-long hair kept sticking to his face, and burrs had worked their way beneath his shirt, scratching at his skin. With a grunt, he yanked off his straw hat, dragged off the old linen shirt, and thrust his arms into the cool water of the pond.

It smelled musty and foul but—oh—it was such a relief to bathe his overheated skin and soothe the irritation. Grass seeds clung to his shirt, so he dipped it in the water and swirled it about until it looked clean before spreading it out on the sun-warmed brickwork to dry. He ducked his head beneath the surface of the pond, splashing the water over his shoulders and chest, then straightened. Just as he was shaking the drops from his hair, the sound of hoofbeats made him stand stock-still.

Sir Thomas was trotting across the bridge on a massive black stallion. Kate Aspinall followed on a bay mare, with some of her ladies, several grooms, and Mistress Barchard bringing up the rear on a chestnut, a tiny merlin on her wrist.

One of the ladies, mounted on a skewbald mare, glanced around and her gaze fixed on Kit. Her gasp of surprise brought Kate to a stop, and thus all the others behind her.

“So much for not working with his shirt off.” The woman made no effort to lower her voice. Kit reached for his shirt, but it was still soaking, so he pretended to be absorbed in something he’d found behind the wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mistress Aspinall idly stroke the breast of her peregrine.

“There is that mark I told you of. If you don’t believe I saw it under the circumstances I claimed, Alys, dismount and ask him. If he denies it, I shall give you back your pocket.”

What mark? What circumstances? He could feel the ladies’ stares on his back. They muttered and tittered behind their leather gloves as their hawks shifted, jingling, on their wrists. If he continued to ignore the group of women, Mistress Aspinall would cause a scene, and that was the last thing he wanted. He straightened up and bowed.

The lady on the skewbald raked his chest with her eyes before bursting into a fit of giggles. Mistress Barchard’s cheeks turned crimson. Kirlham, fortunately, had already passed out of earshot and the grooms had followed, leaving the ladies to their unabashed perusal of Kit’s damp, naked torso.

They were staring at his sword wound. He ducked his head, doing his best to look subservient and apologetic at the same time, scratching at the scar beneath his right breast as if it were of no significance whatsoever. If anyone asked, he’d say he was once attacked by brigands on the highway. One couldn’t tell the quality of a blade from the scar it left. Could one?

The sound of hoofbeats indicated that his moment of humiliation was over. The ladies had had their fill and continued on to find better sport. Heaving out a breath, he straightened, and drew his hand across his brow, only to find himself looking directly into the angry blue-grey eyes of Mistress Barchard.

“You, sirrah, have no place here. You have brought shame to this house, and I intend to remove you from it. Forthwith.”

Before he could ask how a servant being caught shirtless on a hot day brought shame to Selwood, she’d tossed her head, dug her heels into her mount’s flanks, and chased away after the others.

He scowled after her. There was more to her enmity than this present indiscretion. As he shouldered into his damp shirt, a shudder ran through him. There was stalwart determination in that charming little chin, sharp intellect in those blue-grey eyes.

If he wasn’t mistaken, Mistress Barchard already suspected him of being a spy. A fact that could cost him his life.