With his pronouncement, there was a shocked silence. In the blink of an eye, their expressions changed from curious to condemning, knights and servants alike.
It was because of Richard. Because she was his niece. It spun through her mind that even from the grave, her uncle possessed the power to hurt her. . . Her only sin was in sharing the blood of her hated uncle, yet Kathryn felt scorching shame as never before.
Her lashes lowered. She could look nowhere but at the rush-covered floor. She was scarcely aware when he called a servant.
"Show the Lady Kathryn to her chamber," he directed.
Kathryn climbed the stairs behind the woman. She spent the rest of the evening in her room.
Sleep did not come easily that night. She lay huddled in her bed, trying desperately to make sense of all that had happened. Had the earl killed Richard? If not, then who? And why had he insisted she accompany him to Sedgewick?
His ruthless features filled her vision. He despises me and mine, she thought with a shiver. Now Richard was dead. Murdered. The earl claimed he'd been cheated of his revenge on Richard. A horrible assumption formed in her mind. She went cold to the tips of her fingers. Was this to be a reckoning of accounts? Perhaps through her—through her—he sought to gain his revenge on Richard.
Those words she had flung so recklessly came back to haunt her. Mayhap now that you've killed Richard, you've a mind to murder me as well. . . She envisioned his hands, dark and lean and strong.
It would be so easy for him. He had only to wrap his fingers around her throat—or fell her with a single blow.
He could kill her and there was naught she could do to stop him.
A tight band seemed to wrap across her chest, stealing her breath. She made a choked sound deep in her throat. How could she endure it here? She couldn't stand it. . . she could not! Yet escape provided no alternative either—the earl had hunted her down once. She had no doubt he would do so again. So what was she to do? She was trapped, like an animal in a cage. There was nowhere to go, she realized bleakly, that the earl would not find her. No one to care.
She thought of Ashbury... and Elizabeth... dear, sweet Elizabeth... Would she would ever see either of them again?
Never had she felt so alone! She wished desperately that she could cry, but all her pain remained locked tightly inside her.
Kathryn surfaced slowly from beneath filmy layers of sleep. A sense of befuddled confusion nudged the fringes of her consciousness. Something was different, she thought hazily, for every morning of her life she woke to the whistle of the wind whipping round the tower. Still half-asleep, her ears strained to hear the restless wash of the surf scouring the shoreline.
Her eyes flew open as remembrance flooded her mind. She did not snuggle in the warm comfort of her bed at Ashbury—she was at Sedgewick. With a heavy sigh, she heaved onto her side beneath the covers, only to stare straight into a pair of eyes as blue and brilliant as the morning sky.
Her startled gaze beheld a small cherub face and plump, pink cheeks, a small nubbin nose and chin that even now proclaimed a hint of arrogance. Fine, black curls as dark as her own. Her heart lurched as recognition tore through her like a shock wave.
There was no doubt as to this child's identity— he was clearly the earl's son.
Kathryn pushed her heavy hair from her face and sat up, keeping the fur tucked around her night robe. The little boy displayed no fear. His eyes were round with curiosity. "Good morning," she said with a smile. She patted the rumpled covers beside her. "Come and sit," she invited.
He clambered atop the mattress, curled up his legs beneath him, and gazed at her.
She tipped her head to the side. "My name is Kathryn," she told him. "What is yours?"
A hint of shyness crossed his features. He said nothing, merely bit his lip.
"Well, then," she went on lightly, "I suppose I shall have to guess. Is your name Eugene?"
He shook his head.
"William? Duncan?"
Again he shook his head. His eyes had begun to dance.
"I know. 'Tis Wickham!"
A broad grin crossed his face. The sight made her wounded heart lift and soar. Kathryn rattled off another name, still another and another, each more ridiculous than the last, until he was giggling outright.
It was in the midst of this scene that a knock sounded on her chamber door. Neither Kathryn nor the boy heard. The door swung open a second later.
"Peter! There you are, you little scamp!"
The boy was snatched from the bed by a young serving girl of perhaps her own age, with chestnut hair and wide dark eyes. For an instant, Kathryn went utterly still. For the life of her she didn't understand why, but she had the feeling she'd just done something very, very wrong.
"Please forgive Peter's intrusion, milady," the girl said quickly, "and my own lax behavior in letting him stray so far from me."
Kathryn smiled at her. "I did not mind," she said softly. "Indeed, he and I were having great fun."
But no answering smile broke the straight line of the girl's generous mouth. Kathryn watched her, faintly puzzled. Was it her imagination, or did the girl clutch the boy even closer, as if she sought to protect him?
She tried once more. "As I just told the little lord, I am Kathryn." She winked at the little boy. "And I am heartily glad that I've finally learned his name is Peter."
The girl bobbed a curtsy. "I am Gerda, milady."
Kathryn suddenly felt very exposed in the big wide bed. "I see." She feigned a lightness she was suddenly far from feeling. "And do you tend to Peter, Gerda?"
"Aye, milady." Peter was struggling in her arms. "And milord has instructed that I attend you as well. Will you be needing a bath this morning, milady?"
Kathryn's smile froze. Although Gerda's tone and manner were far from lacking in respect, she was stunned at the coldness she sensed in the girl. "If it’s not too much trouble," she murmured.
"I'll see to it then, milady." Gerda backed away, still holding the wiggly little boy in her arms. Kathryn inhaled sharply. It was impossible not to note the girl's clumsy, awkward gait as she withdrew from the chamber.
Alone once more, Kathryn pushed back the covers and rose. She'd been too weary to look about last night, but she did so now, and was unable to suppress a feeling of awe.
The chamber was easily twice the size of her chamber at Ashbury, and far more richly furnished than any she'd been exposed to. The bed was wide and long, curtained with crimson hangings. Her chest had been brought in, pushed against the far wall next to a bench. A beautiful woven rug lay upon the floor, finer than anything she'd ever seen. Wooden shutters framed the window to shut out the chill of winter; it was there that Kathryn directed her steps. She pushed the shutters aside and let the sun's warming rays shower down upon her, noting that her chamber looked upon the inner courtyard.
She was about to turn away when a tall figure intruded into her field of vision. She could have screamed when she recognized the earl. His graceful, long-legged stride carried him across the courtyard. He did not stop until he was almost directly below her window. The boy—Peter—suddenly appeared and darted toward his father.
Some inexplicable force beyond her control kept her rooted near the window. It was as if her entire being were riveted to the pair below as the earl awaited his son. She blinked as the hard edge fled his granite-hewn features. Was it a trick of her eyes? Peter raced toward his father as fast as his chubby legs would allow. With a squeal of excitement, the boy was snatched high into strong arms.
The unexpected sound of low male laughter reached her ears. The features she had thought so grim and ruthless were filled with warmth and love—the harsh, unyielding man she had come to know might never have existed. One dark hand gently cupped the back of Peter's head, a gesture that bespoke all that words could not.