Page 8 of Feathers in the Wind
Adam shrugged. ‘Unfortunately I am doing what I’m best at and that is a small thing I can do to repay his hospitality. It does not mean that I subscribe to your kinsman’s politics.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
He rose to his feet and flexed the fingers of his damaged hand. ‘We can pray that sense prevails and perhaps all this talk of war will be for nothing.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, cocking her head to one side, her eyes searching his face ‘But you don’t believe that, do you? Now you must return to the pikes. Try not to get that bandage wet.’
‘I will suggest Clifford has all the staves replaced.’ At the door he stopped, turned and swept her a courtly bow. ‘Thank you for your care, Mistress Gray.’
She responded with a curtsey and he thought he saw a glimmer of a smile twitch the corners of her mouth as she pulled up her stool to face the bench and opened a large leather-bound volume.
Adam hesitated at the door and looked back at her. She bent over the book, her slender fingers turning the pages as she unconsciously pushed her hair back, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck. Something jolted within him, something he had not felt in a very long time, an unfamiliar stirring of desire.
He wondered if Simon ever told her how beautiful she was.
He closed the door on the scene of domestic peace and strode back towards the Great Hall. A visitor had arrived and, engaged in the act of removing hat, gloves and cloak, he turned as Adam approached.
Robin’s eyes widened in recognition. ‘Adam? I would have thought you long gone from here.’
Adam took a breath to steady his nerves. ‘What brings you to Preswood, Robin?’
‘Denzil had received no reply from Joan so he sent me to ensure that the message had got to her.’
‘Didn’t Denzil trust me with his message?’
The colour rose to Robin’s face. ‘Yes, but—’ He was saved from further explanation by Joan’s appearance at the top of the stairs. ‘Aunt Joan.’ Robin took the stairs two at a time, bowing low and kissing his aunt’s hand.
Joan looked up at her youngest nephew, holding him by the forearms as she studied him. ‘Robin! It is you. My word you were but a lad when I last saw you. Now look at you. Whatever brings you to Preswood? Ludovic.’ She addressed the steward who stood patiently holding Robin’s outer garments. ‘Some refreshment for our guest in the parlour, I think. Perdita, Adam, please join us.’
With her arm tucked into her nephew’s she led her nephew away from the stairs towards the parlour.
Adam stood still watching as they rounded the corner away from his view. Joan saying, ‘I do hope you can stay the night…’
‘I heard voices.’ Perdita’s voice behind him roused Adam from his reverie.
He paused a moment before replying. ‘My brother, Robin,’ he said, attempting a lightness in his tone he didn’t feel.
Perdita glanced up at him. ‘Are you going to stand there all day? Or are you feared of facing your own brother?’
He straightened his shoulders. Perdita Gray seemed able to read his very thoughts. Yes, he admitted to himself, he was afraid of facing Robin. Denzil he could handle, but Robin had been only a boy when he had left England, a boy who had worshipped both his older brothers.
Circumstances had now forced Robin to choose between them and, Adam admitted, the choice hurt.
* * *
‘Perdita,please allow me to present my nephew, Robin Marchant. Robin, our kinswoman, Mistress Gray,’ Joan said, the pleasure of the reunion written on her face.
Perdita now wondered how the pain of the long estrangement from her family had affected Joan.
As they were introduced, Perdita scrutinised the young man’s face searching for some likeness to Adam, but Robin Marchant bore no resemblance to his half-brother. He seemed impossibly young, not much older than Bess. His thick, auburn hair curled to his shoulder, his clothes were of good cloth, fashionably cut, and the lace on his collar looked expensive. He had an attractive, fine-boned face with lively, hazel eyes.
His mouth curled naturally into a smile at her entry; the smile of a man who liked women and knew that they liked him.
He bestowed the same winning smile on Bess who stood beside her stepmother, regarding the newcomer from beneath coy, fluttering eyelashes. Perdita was not fooled. As the first eligible young man to cross their doorstep for a long time—and a handsome one at that—Bess could be forgiven for a little harmless flirting.
‘You are most welcome to Preswood.’ Perdita dropped a dutiful curtsey. ‘Forgive my curiosity but what brings you here?’
‘Denzil didn’t trust me to deliver his message,’ Adam growled as he entered the room behind her. He strode over to the window and stood with his hands behind his back, looking out over the green where barely an hour previously he had been drilling Simon’s militia.
