Page 43 of An Outlaw’s Desire

Sherborne.

Pitt shoved the door closed. “What in hellfire are you doing in my room?”

His lordship chortled. “I was waiting for you.”

Sherborne must have bribed one of the staff to let him in. Pitt’s gaze dropped to the table, where his saddlebag lay open. Had his lordship gone through his belongings? An unpleasant sense of violation crawled through Pitt. “Why are you here?”

“I needed to speak with you.”

“Are you mad? If folk learn you visited me here—”

“Worry not. I have handled that matter.”

“Handled—?”

“Thirty men will join you for the siege.”

Pitt frowned. “Only thirty? ’Tis not enough.”

“’Twill have to be. The day after tomorrow, at dawn, you will meet them in the forest glade.”

Bile rose to the back of Pitt’s throat. Was Sherborne really not able to secure more men, or did he want Pitt’s siege to fail? A sense of doom—of the arrangements just being wrong—taunted Pitt.

He longed to tell Sherborne to get the hell out, to never contact him again, but instead, he swallowed his resentment and nodded once.

Sherborne smiled and then withdrew an object from the satchel at his hip. He set what he was holding on the table: Fenton’s leather pouch.

Fear crawled over Pitt’s skin. As Sherborne tried to brush past him, Pitt’s arm shot out to block the doorway. “How did you get that?”

Menace in his gaze, his lordship stared Pitt down.

Pitt fought a ghastly, overwhelming sense of helplessness. “Fenton would not willingly have given you that pouch.”

“Indeed, he did not. He fought quite valiantly, for a child, to keep it.”

God’s blood. “If you have hurt him—”

“Dawn. The day after tomorrow.”

Chapter Eleven

“Ouch.” Blythe sucked at the crimson spot on her finger. She’d pricked herself with the embroidery needle again.

Sitting on the bench on the other side of the trestle table, Clarine giggled. “You have done that three times this morning.”

With a sigh, Blythe set down the cloth bird she’d been stitching. A yawn tickled the back of her throat, for she’d had trouble falling asleep after Pitt had left her chamber. Her mind had refused to quit reliving their coupling, which had led to wondering why he had to keep his presence in the fortress a secret. Whatever the reason, it must be important. The Pitt she’d known years ago had been impulsive, but never foolish—and him sneaking into the fortress had been both.

He knew the proper way to do things. He should have requested an audience with Lord Montgomery, or, if his lordship wasn’t available, with whoever had been left in charge.

As far as she knew, Pitt hadn’t. After he’d disappeared into the dark passageway, she’d thought to go after him, to find out where the tunnel led, but there were many hidden passageways in the keep and she’d worried about losing her way. She’d pushed the chest of drawers back into place and had retired to her bed to lie awake, tormented by her musings.

Finally, as the fire in the hearth had died down, she’d drifted off asleep, only to be awakened what had seemed moments later by Clarine, jumping onto the bed.

Blythe yawned again. At least they were making progress on the ornaments; the completed birds were piling up in the nearby basket. Only a few more stitches, and Blythe would have finished embroidering the red breast of a robin with black beads for eyes.

“Look.” Clarine held up her blue jay with adorably misshapen wings.

“He is a lovely little fellow.” Blythe fought another yawn. Mayhap a walk outdoors would get rid of her tiredness. “How about if we go feed the birds? We haven’t done that yet.”