“Why is Ailsa crying?” she demanded weakly. “And who is that man? What did he say to her?”
Tate gave her a lopsided grin and motioned her in his direction. Dutifully, and slowly, she slid to the edge of the wagon bed. Tate already had a heavy woolen traveling blanket in hand and he tossed it over her shoulders, wrapping her up tightly. When he was satisfied that she was properly covered, he scooped her into his massive arms and walked towards the keep.
“That man is Wallace,” he said, eyeing the bulk of a man as he began to descend the steps towards them. “He has run Harbottle quite ably for many years. However, he is not used to being around women and, I am sure, unused to tact or pleasant conversation. He simply does not know any better so you should not be upset by anything he says.”
He turned to look at Toby as he finished, his storm cloud-colored eyes meeting with her brilliant hazel. There was a strange pull to the moment and a strange feeling of warmth that settled in his veins. He remembered feeling such a thing once, years ago, but not nearly with this intensity. The heat was so strong that it made his palms sweat, although it was not unpleasant. In fact, he rather liked it.
“I will not tolerate him causing my sister tears,” Toby told him with quiet firmness. “If he lacks manners, then I shall be happy to teach him for the duration of my stay.”
Tate grinned, studying her face, thinking he’d never in his life seen such a lovely creature. “I have no doubt that you will,” he snorted softly. “I fear Wallace is in for a harsh lesson.”
Before Toby could reply, the hairy beast of a man was upon them. He bowed swiftly to Tate and a horrendous smell of sweat and smoke billowed up from the layers of dirty robes he wore. Toby had to repress the urge to pinch her nose shut as his head came up and small brown eyes focused on her. There was something intense in the deep depths. Then he looked at Tate.
“My lord,” Wallace greeted in a very deep, very gravelly voice. “We are honored with your arrival.”
Tate walked past the man, continuing up the stairs. “What chamber did you tell Stephen to put the little girl in?”
“I did not tell him any chamber,” Wallace followed. “We have no accommodations for womenfolk.”
Tate paused at the top of the stairs, lifting an eyebrow at him. “Then make some. Clean up my chamber and put them in it.”
“But, my lord…,” Wallace began to protest.
“Do it now,” Tate commanded. “Clean linen on the bed, a warm fire and a hot bath.”
Tate sharply turned his back on him and headed into the dark, dank depths of the keep. It was a creepy place, smelling of must and spooks. Toby’s grip around Tate’s neck instinctively tightened as he took her into the unfamiliar bowels. He could feel her tensing in his arms.
Behind him, Wallace was grumbling and growling as he followed. It seemed the man wasn’t finished voicing his opinion yet about women in Harbottle.
“My lord, we have no clean linen,” he said pointedly. “What we have cannot be considered fitting for females.”
Tate sighed heavily and came to a halt. He turned to face the man. “God’s Blood, man, then go and wash some. Hang them out to dry before a blazing fire and put some water on to boil. If I have to command this again I swear I will throw you out on your arse and you can find yourself another liege.”
Wallace scowled at him but wisely held his tongue. His grizzled gaze moved between his lord and the lady in his arms. Tate could read the man’s disgruntled thoughts and suppressed the urge to smile; Wallace was a complainer but he would get the job done. He was just being old and stubborn and difficult. Tate’s gaze moved to Toby’s beautiful face, a light of magnificence in this dark and dreary place.
“This is Mistress Elizabetha Cartingdon,” he told his majordomo. “Mistress, meet Wallace, the majordomo of Harbottle. He is at your disposal.”
Before Toby could acknowledge the introduction, Tate turned for the great hall off to his left, a huge cavernous room that was dark but for the fire that Stephen was attempting to coax from a hearth that was taller than he was. Ailsa sat on a bench nearby, shrouded by the dark and wrapped in her blanket as she watched Stephen try to get a blaze going. Her little face turned towards the doorway as Tate and Toby entered.
“I do not like this place,” she announced, hopping off the bench and running to her sister. “It frightens me. I want to go home!”
Tate gently put Toby down and the two sisters embraced tightly.
“Our home is here for now,” Toby said softly, feeling distaste for the place even as she said it. “I will return to Forestburn in a few days and we shall see what is left. We can rebuild.”
Ailsa buried her face in Toby’s stomach. “But I want to go home now.”
Toby soothed her weary, frightened little sister. “We cannot go home now. You must accept this. For today, we will have food and a little rest and things will look better.”
“I want my father!”
Toby shushed her. “He is gone, little chicken. You must accept this also.”
Ailsa began to sob softly and Toby steered her sister over to the bench. The two of them sat and comforted each other, the soft sounds of the child’s weeping filling the air. Tate watched them a moment, feeling his guilt return. But he also realized one thing very quickly; he liked having Toby within these walls. He liked having her with him. And having Ailsa around was like having a daughter at his feet like the one lost those years ago.It was a warm, fulfilling sensation, something he’d never before experienced. It was also dangerous for he could imagine quite easily forgetting everything of import except for the two small women before him.
To his left, Stephen managed to get the fire going. A soft, warm light radiated from the hearth, growing brighter by the moment. The big knight stood up and brushed soot off his hands.
“That will do for now,” he said to Tate, eyeing the two sisters as they consoled each other. “We must prepare a chamber for them. Both ladies need much rest.”
