“Not tomorrow,” he told her. “We did not arrive until late today. It is unlikely Sir Jasper has a watch posted in the rain to spy upon the keep, for he had no idea that you would return, and the king’s lack of interest in Greyfaire has given him confidence to do anything he wants at any time he desires to do it. Possibly the day after, if the word gets out—and these things do, though God knows how. With luck the earl will be here before Sir Jasper, and if he is not, we will certainly be able to hold out. You are certain that he will come?”
“He will come,” Arabella said, assured. “Not for my sake, but for his daughter’s sake.”
“Perhaps Lona is right.” FitzWalter chuckled again. “Mayhap you are wicked, my lady.”
And Arabella Grey laughed aloud, feeling truly amused for the first time in many months. “Aye,” she admitted to him, “perhaps I am wicked, FitzWalter.”
The men upon the walls watched carefully all the following day, but the countryside about them was wet and peaceful. More peaceful, it seemed to the frightened residents of Greyfaire, than it had been in many months. The day, however, was gray and rainy. ‘Twas not a day a man who believed himself to have all the time in the world would choose to attack his enemies. The night fell and the rain continued, heavier now.
When night had barely fallen, there came a rapping on the postern gate, and looking out the grille, the man on watch saw Rowan FitzWalter, the Earl of Dunmor, and behind them a large group of riders.
“Lower the drawbridge, Wat,” Rowan FitzWalter said, and the man-at-arms at the postern gate gave the order to do so.
The earl and his clansmen poured into the already crowded castle courtyard, their horses jostling against people and cattle as they came. FitzWalter was immediately there, directing the men and horses to the stable area where they might shelter the wet beasts. A stableboy ran up to take the earl’s great stallion, and the earl smiled at him.
“Rub him down good, laddie,” he said with a smile, and then turned to FitzWalter. “How bad is it?”
“We only just got back from France ourselves, my lord,” the captain told him, “but Sir Jasper, from what I can see, has done a right fine job of destroying Greyfaire. There’s nothing left, and most of Greyfaire’s folk have gone but for—as my son Rowan puts it—the sick and the stubborn.”
“And when I’ve finally killed SirJasper Keane, FitzWalter, will Greyfaire thrive again?” the earl asked quietly.
A terrible sadness sprang into FitzWalter’s eyes, a knowledge that he obviously found hard to face. Finally he looked directly at the Earl of Dunmor and answered honestly, “Nay, I think not, my lord, though it pains me to say it. The land will come back in time with hard work and care, and my lady has good credit with the goldsmiths in York, but we have lost our people, my lord. No estate can survive without its people, and there are many who would question my mistress’s ability to hold Greyfaire. If her ladyship is Greyfaire’s heart—and she is—then Greyfaire’s folk are the blood in its veins. There is not enough blood left in Greyfaire’s body for it to continue on, to live again.”
“But yer mistress will continue to try, will she nae, FitzWalter?”
“Aye, my lord, she will,” the keep’s captain said fatalistically.
“Then,” said the earl, “I must continue to wait for her to come to her senses, though my family harangues me constantly to remarry and hae more bairns.”
“Lady Margaret!”FitzWalter said. “You will want to see our little lady! Oh, she is a right piece of goods, my lord. As willful as her mother, I vow!”
Tavis Stewart burst out laughing. “God help me then, FitzWalter,” he said. “One of them is more than I can handle, and I am nae ashamed to admit it either.”
FitzWalter chuckled in agreement.
They came into the Great Hall, and the earl saw Arabella standing by a fireplace warming her hands. A small, dark-haired girl was by her side. Hearing them, Arabella turned, and seeing him, she bent, whispering something to the child, who suddenly sped across the room toward the earl calling, “Papa! Papa!” Tavis Stewart swept his daughter up into his arms and kissed her soundly, even as he silently marveled at the beautiful sky-blue of her eyes. As he looked past Margaret, snuggled happily in his arms, to meet Arabella’s gaze, she saw that his eyes were wet. Turning away, she brushed the tears from her own eyes lest he see them.
Swinging back to face him, she spoke in formal, even tones. “You are most welcome to Greyfaire, my lord. I thank you for coming. You must be thirsty after your long ride. Will you have some ale? I regret I cannot offer you wine, but I returned only two days ago to find my cellars virtually empty, but for a cask or two. We will save what is left to celebrate your defeat of our mutual enemy. Nora, take Lady Margaret. It is past her bedtime. Margaret, bid your father good night. He will be here in the morning to see you, I promise,” she told her daughter, who looked as if she would rebel, but reassured by her mother’s words, she did not.
“Ale will be quite refreshing, madame. My thanks,” he said, accepting the pewter goblet as the child was removed from his embrace. What a vixen she was, he thought, and he almost laughed aloud. She was behaving as if his visit were totally unexpected; as if finding himself in the neighborhood, he had simply stopped to visit. He was tempted to say that he had merely come to conduct his daughter to a place of safety, since he had learned Greyfaire would shortly be under siege. He wondered if he told her that whether she would then ask for his help. He doubted it. Arabella would fight Sir Jasper Keane in hand-to-hand combat before she would ask formally for Tavis Stewart’s aid. Her pride would be the death of her.
“Your men may bed themselves down in the hall, my lord,” she told him in a stiff tone. “A chamber has been prepared in the family apartments for you.”
“Thank ye, madame,” he said. “Do ye then consider me yet a part of the ‘family’?” It had simply been too good to resist, Tavis Stewart considered, his dark green eyes twinkling at her. She suddenly realized that they were alone. The hall was empty but for herself and the Earl of Dunmor.
“This is a small keep, my lord, as you surely realize. Honored guests must, of necessity, be housed in the family apartments,” she replied primly.
“Of course, madame,” he answered gravely.
“You will be hungry after your journey,” Arabella continued coolly. “I regret I can but offer you simple fare, but ‘tis hot, well-seasoned, and filling, I promise.”
The Earl of Dunmor found himself most tempted to grab the Lady of Greyfaire and kiss her quite soundly. She was the most stubborn, most aggravating, most irritating woman he had ever known in his life, but she had totally spoiled him for any other woman. He had not seen her since his visit to France, but somehow the beautiful woman in her plain country garb fascinated him a great deal more than the elegant creature he had encountered in Paris. Whatever had happened between them, Tavis Stewart knew that he loved Arabella Grey, had always loved her, and would never love another woman but her. He wanted her back as his wife, his countess, the mother of his children. This time, however, he would not take her from Greyfaire. This time he would wait until she was ready to leave it of her own free will, until she was ready to come to him. He didn’t care how long it took, he would have none but her.
His men were beginning to enter the hall, and the keep’s few servants were hurrying in with the food. The men sat themselves down below the highboard, where their hostess, Father Anselm, the earl, and FitzWalter were already seated. Donald Fleming stamped up to the dais and plunked himself into the chair next to his elder brother. Arabella nodded her head in greeting, and he grunted something undistinguishable back at her.
“It is comforting to know that our estrangement has not altered my relationship with your brother, my lord,” Arabella said with some small attempt at levity.
“Donald does nae change,” Tavis Stewart said, amused. “However, he is a married man now, ye know.”
