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Authors: Lois Greiman
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ragged memories seemed as old as time itself.
It was peacefully pastoral now, but had it always been so? He could not remember, for it seemed almost as if he had viewed this place with different eyes. Was it then, that he had changed so greatly, or the estate itself?
He could not say, and turned his mind irritably aside, lest his head begin to pound with questions. The answers would come if he let them. He would learn all he could of the willful lady he had left afoot. He would find the truth and learn why he was here in this time and place. And once that was accomplished, he would do what he must, as was his wont.
” ‘Tis na so verra far,” he said, turning back toward the mare. “A furlong or two. Na more. Ye could run it in a matter of seconds. Yer mistress is well up to the task of walking it.”
The dark eyes turned back with accusatory arrogance.
“She’s na so delicate as she looks, I’ll tell ye that,” he said, and though he hated his own defensive tone, he continued on. “Maids.” He shook his head. “They play on yer heart while they plan yer demise.”
The mare snorted.
“Aye, very well then, I admit, ‘twas mayhap a mistake for me to leave her afoot. Chivalry demands better.” He drew a deep breath. Confusion rolled through him. Everything seemed wrong. But he dare not voice his uncertainty aloud. Confidence was everything. Weakness meant death. ‘Twas as simple as that in his world. But was this his world? Since awakening alone beside the road some days ago, nothing was clear. Some things he remembered, but cast over it all was a fog of uncertainty. “Chivalry…” he mused, his mind churning as the mare danced onto Briarburn’s sweeping drive, her hooves a staccato beat against the hard-packed clay. “It seems all but dead,” he said, but at that moment a man burst from the house and hobbled rapidly down the path toward them, a furry, skewbald hound in his wake.
“My lady,” he yelled when barely halfway to Killian. “Where is my lady?”
Killian deepened his scowl. It was bad enough confessing his sins to the mare. He did not care to share the news with this strangely dressed stranger. Though a few carefully phrased questions addressed to the miller’s son had assured Killian the lady had no remaining relatives, he found it difficult to believe that this fellow was a servant, for his garments were of rare quality.
“Who might ye be?” he asked, striding toward the breathless gentleman.
“I am Lady Glendowne’s butler,” he said. The cur peeked uneasily from behind his legs. “Please, tell me where she is.”
Now that it came to it, Killian felt some embarrassment for his actions, but he was not one to polish the truth.
“I left her down the road a wee bit,” he rumbled guiltily
The man stopped. His face paled. “She is not—”
Killian scowled. She must pay her servants well indeed for this kind of concern, for God knew she was far too imperious to gain it by other means. “She is well enough,” he assured the other, “but ye’d best take a dray to fetch her home.”
The manservant opened his mouth for a moment as if to inquire further, then closed his jaw with a snap and hobbled back toward the house.
By the time Killian reached the stable, a cob had already been hitched to a conveyance, the likes of which he had never seen. He watched in bemusement as the stout gray lurched into motion, with its driver bent furiously over the lines.
True, Killian thought, he had only been in London on rare occasions, but during his time there he had not noticed that the English were so very different from his kinsmen, or even from his French liege. The image of his master’s face smote his mind like the edge of a dull sword, burning on contact.
There was no name to accompany the dark, impervious visage, only uncertainty and swirling emotions, but it seemed almost that his lord had sent him here, to this very place, and yet, not to this place at all.
He shook his
It was peacefully pastoral now, but had it always been so? He could not remember, for it seemed almost as if he had viewed this place with different eyes. Was it then, that he had changed so greatly, or the estate itself?
He could not say, and turned his mind irritably aside, lest his head begin to pound with questions. The answers would come if he let them. He would learn all he could of the willful lady he had left afoot. He would find the truth and learn why he was here in this time and place. And once that was accomplished, he would do what he must, as was his wont.
” ‘Tis na so verra far,” he said, turning back toward the mare. “A furlong or two. Na more. Ye could run it in a matter of seconds. Yer mistress is well up to the task of walking it.”
The dark eyes turned back with accusatory arrogance.
“She’s na so delicate as she looks, I’ll tell ye that,” he said, and though he hated his own defensive tone, he continued on. “Maids.” He shook his head. “They play on yer heart while they plan yer demise.”
The mare snorted.
“Aye, very well then, I admit, ‘twas mayhap a mistake for me to leave her afoot. Chivalry demands better.” He drew a deep breath. Confusion rolled through him. Everything seemed wrong. But he dare not voice his uncertainty aloud. Confidence was everything. Weakness meant death. ‘Twas as simple as that in his world. But was this his world? Since awakening alone beside the road some days ago, nothing was clear. Some things he remembered, but cast over it all was a fog of uncertainty. “Chivalry…” he mused, his mind churning as the mare danced onto Briarburn’s sweeping drive, her hooves a staccato beat against the hard-packed clay. “It seems all but dead,” he said, but at that moment a man burst from the house and hobbled rapidly down the path toward them, a furry, skewbald hound in his wake.
“My lady,” he yelled when barely halfway to Killian. “Where is my lady?”
Killian deepened his scowl. It was bad enough confessing his sins to the mare. He did not care to share the news with this strangely dressed stranger. Though a few carefully phrased questions addressed to the miller’s son had assured Killian the lady had no remaining relatives, he found it difficult to believe that this fellow was a servant, for his garments were of rare quality.
“Who might ye be?” he asked, striding toward the breathless gentleman.
“I am Lady Glendowne’s butler,” he said. The cur peeked uneasily from behind his legs. “Please, tell me where she is.”
Now that it came to it, Killian felt some embarrassment for his actions, but he was not one to polish the truth.
“I left her down the road a wee bit,” he rumbled guiltily
The man stopped. His face paled. “She is not—”
Killian scowled. She must pay her servants well indeed for this kind of concern, for God knew she was far too imperious to gain it by other means. “She is well enough,” he assured the other, “but ye’d best take a dray to fetch her home.”
The manservant opened his mouth for a moment as if to inquire further, then closed his jaw with a snap and hobbled back toward the house.
By the time Killian reached the stable, a cob had already been hitched to a conveyance, the likes of which he had never seen. He watched in bemusement as the stout gray lurched into motion, with its driver bent furiously over the lines.
True, Killian thought, he had only been in London on rare occasions, but during his time there he had not noticed that the English were so very different from his kinsmen, or even from his French liege. The image of his master’s face smote his mind like the edge of a dull sword, burning on contact.
There was no name to accompany the dark, impervious visage, only uncertainty and swirling emotions, but it seemed almost that his lord had sent him here, to this very place, and yet, not to this place at all.
He shook his
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