The knight’s mouth quirked. “Master Boyd, I do find your recently acquired sense of responsibility rather annoying. But yes, you have every right to make that request.” He looked to Beryl. “Would you explain the change of seating this evening, Beryl?”
“Forgive me, Sir Lucan, but I do think you’ve forgotten your manners. Master Boyd might also desire to be informed that Lord and Lady Paget of Elsmire Tower are to be in attendance at the hunt.”
Padraig wasn’t certain how exactly Lucan had broken etiquette, but Beryl had put him in his place just as surely as if she had been the lady of the hold. He thought perhaps Lucan’s cool temper would flare, but he only gave her an indulgent smile—a lover’s smile?—before turning his attention to Padraig.
“Lord Adolphus Paget is well known to be one of the king’s patrons. His estate is one of the wealthiest of the borderlands, and yet his reputation is somewhat…unsavory, due to his habits and his many mistresses. Beryl was under the employ of Lady Paget at Elsmire Tower before her…stay in France.”
There it was again—a mention of Beryl in France, just as Searrach had said. Did it mean that the gossip about her was true? What other reason would a young woman have for leaving her English mistress to remain behind in France for a time, and then taking the employ of another household when she returned?
And why did it matter so much to Padraig? Perhaps it was because he could not imagine the proper beauty in such a position—unless she had become pregnant against her will. In which case her circumstances would beunderstandable.
Just the idea that Beryl had been set upon by such a man was enough to cloud his thinking with rage. Had Lord Pagetbeen her lover?
He met Beryl’s gaze. “Did you run away from—what is it? Elsmire?”
“I did not.”
“So Lady Paget knows you are here. And you have no wish to see her?”
“I do not, Master Boyd,” she affirmed stiffly. It was a marked change in her demeanor from a moment earlier, and Padraig did not care for it. He liked to see Beryl smiling, or perhaps flustered and blushing underhis attention.
So although he wanted to press her, and he thought that she would answer him if he did, he would not demand of her what she did not wish to willingly supply. For now, all that mattered was that she would be sitting at his side tonight.
“Well, then.” Padraig closed the distance between them, gave her a bow, and then offered his arm. “Shall we?”
She laid her palm atop his forearm as they had practiced a hundred times in this very room, but standing in his fine suit of clothes, looking down at the woman dressed as she deserved to be, he stood even taller. As they walked from the chamber and made their way through the corridors, Padraig almost felt as though Darlyrede did belong to him—belonged to them. The lord of Darlyrede and his lady.
The intruder and his borrowed maid, who was perhaps in love with the knight who followed them to the hall.
He shook the unpleasant, bitter reminder from his mind. Tonight he was not the interloper and she was not the servant. This was his chance to show Beryl who he really was, who he could be, and perhaps make her think twice about who she would rather spendher time with.
Perhaps even her future.
Chapter 11
The great hall was already crammed with guests when Iris floated through the doorway on Padraig Boyd’s arm. The smell of the rich foods that would soon be served wafted just under the great swags of greenery and ribbons, mingling together the crisp scent of the winter woods with roast venison and woodsmoke and spiced wine andheady cologne.
They made their way to Padraig’s table, where Peter and Rynn and the others in Padraig’s camp had caught sight of them and were rising from their seats. Padraig leaned his head closer to Iris’s ear so as to be heard above the cacophony of voices and laughter and frolicking hounds, and the vibration of his deep voice so close to her skin caused gooseflesh to raise beneath the silk of the old gown.
“There must be two hundred people here,” he said, warming her hair with his breath, and then he pulled out herchair for her.
Was he nervous? Iris certainly was. If he made a fool of himself, it could only beBeryl’sfault. Had she remembered everything? Had she done enough to prepare him for tonight, for these people?
Iris sat at his side while across from them, around them, the servants lowered into their own seats. Iris could feel the sullen presence of Cletus as he stood against the wall at Padraig’s back.
“Lady Hargrave said upward of a score of holds had been invited.” Iris spread her napkin and then attempted to scan the crowd surreptitiously around the cupbearer as he attended to her chalice. She couldn’t see very far into the wall of people in the center of the hall. “I suspect with their retinues, your approximation is accurate, Master Boyd.”
She took a sip of wine, lowering her lashes as she felt the weight of the curious stares being cast in their direction. She could name several of the guests on sight, but thankfully, none of them knew her. Darlyrede’s lesser servants would not be in attendance at such a lavish affair, and the kitchen staff was so harried that Iris didn’t fear being outed. Even the ones who looked directly upon her didn’t seem to recognize her in Euphemia Hargrave’s old kirtle.
“I feel like a hare caught in a briar,” Padraig continued in a mutter, and the nerves in his voice tugged unexpectedly at her heart. “They’re all watchin’ tae see which way I rin.”
“Careful,” Iris said in a quiet singsong voice. “Your Scots is showing.”
“Och, one does beg your paardohn, my lady.”
Iris couldn’t help her giggle. “You would have sounded like Sir Lucan had it not been for your ‘och,’”
“I love to hear your laughter, even if it is at my expense. ’Tis like a morning bird’s song.”
